The  Author  just  before  Leaving  for  Home. 


''OVER  THE  TOP," 

BY 
AN  AMERICAN  SOLDIER  WHO  WENT 


ARTHUR    GUY    EMPEY 

u 

MACHINE  GUNNER,  SERVING  IN  FRANCE 


TOGETHER  WITH 

TOMMY'S  DICTIONARY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 


16  ILLUSTRATIONS  AND  DIAGRAMS 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

Ubc  imtcfcerbocfeer  press 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 

BY 
ARTHUR   GUY  EMPEY 


TTbe  Knickerbocker  prew,  ttew  Vorfe 


df. 


Co 
MY  MOTHER  AND  MY  SISTER 

I  have  had  many  good  comrades  as  I  have  journeyed  around 
the  world,  before  the  mast  and  in  the  trenches,  but  loyal  and 
true  as  they  were,  none  have  ever  done,  or  could  ever  do,  as 
much  as  you  have  done  for  me.  So  as  a  little  token  of  my 
gratitude  for  your  love  and  sacrifice  I  dedicate  this  book  to  you. 


3G29S4 


I 


FOREWORD 

DURING  sixteen  years  of  "roughing  it, "  knocking 
around  the  world,  I  have  rubbed  against  the  high 
and  low  and  have  had  ample  opportunity  of  study- 
ing, at  close  range,  many  different  peoples,  their 
ideals,  political  and  otherwise,  their  hopes  and 
principles.  Through  this  elbow  rubbing,  and  not 
from  reading,  I  have  become  convinced  of  the 
nobility,  truth,  and  justice  of  the  Allies'  cause,  and 
know  their  fight  to  be  our  fight,  because  it  espouses 
the  principles  of  the  United  States  of  America, 
democracy,  justice,  and  liberty. 

To  the  average  American  who  has  not  lived  and 
fought  with  him,  the  Englishman  appears  to  be 
distant,  reserved,  a  slow  thinker,  and  lacking  in 
humor,  but  from  my  association  with  the  man 
who  inhabits  the  British  Isles,  I  find  that  this 
opinion  is  unjust.  To  me,  Tommy  Atkins  has 
proved  himself  to  be  the  best  of  mates,  a  pal,  and 
bubbling  over  with  a  fine  sense  of  humor,  a  man 
with  a  just  cause  who  is  willing  to  sacrifice  every- 
thing but  honor  in  the  advancement  of  the  same. 


vi  Foreword 

It  is  my  fondest  hope  that  Uncle  Sam  and  John 
Bull,  arms  locked,  as  mates,  good  and  true,  each 
knowing  and  appreciating  the  worth  of  the  other, 
will  wend  their  way  through  the  years  to  come, 
happy  and  contented  in  each  other's  company. 
So  if  this  poor  attempt  of  mine  will,  in  any  way, 
help  to  bring  Tommy  Atkins  closer  to  the  doorstep 
of  Uncle  Sam,  my  ambition  will  have  been  realized. 

Perhaps  to  some  of  my  readers  it  will  appear 
that  I  have  written  of  a  great  and  just  cause  in  a 
somewhat  flippant  manner,  but  I  assure  them 
such  was  not  my  intention.  I  have  tried  to  tell 
my  experiences  in  the  language  of  Tommy  sitting 
on  the  fire  step  of  a  front-line  trench  on  the  West- 
ern Front — just  as  he  would  tell  his  mate  next 
him  what  was  happening  at  a  different  part  of  the 
line. 

A.  G.  E. 

NEW  YORK  CITY, 
May,  1917. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — FROM  MUFTI  TO  KHAKI          .         .  i 

II. — BLIGHTY  TO  REST  BILLETS      .         .  12 

III. — I  Go  TO  CHURCH  ....  24 

IV.— "INTO  THE  TRENCH "      ...  27 

V. — MUD,  RATS,  AND  SHELLS        .         .  33 

VI. — "BACK  OF  THE  LINE"    ...  39 

VII. — RATIONS 46 

VIII. — THE  LITTLE  WOODEN  CROSS  .         .  54 

IX. — SUICIDE  ANNEX      ....  60 

X.— "THE  DAY'S  WORK"      ...  63 

XL— OVER  THE  TOP       ....  69 

XII. — BOMBING 78 

XIII. — MY  FIRST  OFFICIAL  BATH       .         .  87 

XIV. — PICKS  AND  SHOVELS        ...  92 

XV. — LISTENING  POST      .         .         .         .103 

XVI.— BATTERY  D  238     .         .         .         .  108 

XVII.— OUT  IN  FRONT        .         .         .         .131 
vii 


viii  Contents 

CHAPTER  PACK 

XVIII.— STAGED  UNDER  FIRE  .  .  .135 

XIX. — ON  HIS  OWN          .  .  .  .145 

XX.— "CHATS  WITH  FRITZ"  .  .     158 

XXI.— ABOUT  TURN          .  .  .  .167 

XXII. — PUNISHMENTS     AND     MACHINE-GUN 

STUNTS 177 

XXIII. — GAS  ATTACKS  AND  SPIES         .         .     187 

XXIV.— THE  FIRING  SQUAD         .         .         .204 

XXV. — PREPARING  FOR  THE  BIG  PUSH        .     234 

XXVI. — ALL   QUIET    (?)    ON  THE  WESTERN 

FRONT  ....     242 

XXVII.— BLIGHTY 262 

"TOMMY'S  DICTIONARY  OF  THE  TRENCHES"         281 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

THE  AUTHOR   JUST   BEFORE    LEAVING    FOR 

HOME     .....      Frontispiece 

IDENTIFICATION  DISK 24 

DIAGRAM  SHOWING  TYPICAL  FRONT-LINE  AND 

COMMUNICATION  TRENCHES      ...       30 

FACSIMILE  OF  THE  GREEN  ENVELOPE       .         .      44 

DIAGRAM  ILLUSTRATING  TYPICAL  FIRE  TRENCH, 
.SECOND-LINE  AND  COMMUNICATION  TREN- 
CHES, FIRST  AID  STATIONS,  etc.,  etc..         .       94 

PROGRAM  OF  A  PERFORMANCE  GIVEN  AT  THE 

FRONT 138 

ARE  WE  DOWNHEARTED?    No!        .         .         .150 

THE  AUTHOR  WEARING  A  CAPTURED  GERMAN 

HELMET 160 

FIELD  POST  CARD  ISSUED  ONCE  A  WEEK  TO 

THE  TOMMIES 168 

A  GAS  HELMET 190 

MAP    OF    GERMAN    TRENCHES.    HEBUTERNE, 

FRANCE,  1916.          .....     238 

ix 


x  Illustrations 

PAGE 

CARD  USED  BY  RED  CROSS  NURSES  TO  NOTIFY 

FAMILIES  OF  WOUNDED    ....     266 

AFTER  THE  TRENCH  RAID       ....     268 

A  "DOWNHEARTED  BUNCH"  FROM  MUNSEY 
WARD,  AMERICAN  WOMEN'S  WAR  HOSPI- 
TAL   272 


"OVER   THE   TOP" 


Over  the  Top 


CHAPTER   I 

FROM   MUFTI   TO   KHAKI 

f  T  was  in  an  office  in  Jersey  City.  I  was  sitting 
at  my  desk  talking  to  a  Lieutenant  of  the 
Jersey  National  Guard.  On  the  wall  was  a  big 
war  map  decorated  with  variously  colored  little 
flags  showing  the  position  of  the  opposing  armies 
on  the  Western  Front  in  France.  In  front  of  me 
on  the  desk  lay  a  New  York  paper  with  big  flaring 
head  lines: 

LU SIT  AN  I  A  SUNK!    AMERICAN  LIVES 
LOST! 

The  windows  were  open  and  a  feeling  of  spring 
pervaded  the  air.  Through  the  open  windows 
came  the  strains  of  a  hurdy-gurdy  playing 

i 


2  Over  the  Top 

in  the  street — /  Didn't  Raise  my  Boy  to  be  a 
Soldier. 

"Lusitania  Sunk!  American  Lives  Lost!" — 
I  Didn't  Raise  my  Boy  to  be  a  Soldier.  To  us 
these  did  not  seem  to  jibe. 

The  Lieutenant  in  silence  opened  one  of  the 
lower  drawers  of  his  desk  and  took  from  it  an 
American  flag  which  he  solemnly  draped  over  the 
war  map  on  the  wall.  Then,  turning  to  me  with 
a  grim  face,  said : 

"How  about  it,  Sergeant?  You  had  better 
get  out  the  muster  roll  of  the  Mounted  Scouts,  as 
I  think  they  will  be  needed  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days." 

We  busied  ourselves  till  late  in  the  evening 
writing  out  emergency  telegrams  for  the  men  to 
report  when  the  call  should  come  from  Washing- 
ton. Then  we  went  home. 

I  crossed  over  to  New  York,  and  as  I  went  up 
Fulton  Street  to  take  the  Subway  to  Brooklyn, 
the  lights  in  the  tall  buildings  of  New  York 
seemed  to  be  burning  brighter  than  usual,  as  if 
they,  too,  had  read  "Lusitania  Sunk!  American 
Lives  Lost!"  They  seemed  to  be  glowing  with 
anger  and  righteous  indignation,  and  their  rays 
wigwagged  the  message,  "REPAY'" 


From  Mufti  to  Khaki  3 

Months  passed,  the  telegrams  lying  handy,  but 
covered  with  dust.  Then,  one  momentous  morning 
the  Lieutenant  with  a  sigh  of  disgust  removed  the 
flag  from  the  war  map  and  returned  to  his  desk. 
I  immediately  followed  this  action  by  throwing 
the  telegrams  into  the  wastebasket.  Then  we 
looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  He  was  squirm- 
ing in  his  chair  and  I  felt  depressed  and  uneasy. 

The  telephone  rang  and  I  answered  it.  It  was 
a  business  call  for  me  requesting  my  services  for 
an  out-of-town  assignment.  Business  was  not 
very  good,  so  this  was  very  welcome.  After 
listening  to  the  proposition,  I  seemed  to  be  swayed 
by  a  peculiarly  strong  force  within  me,  and  an- 
swered, "I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  accept  your 
offer,  but  I  am  leaving  for  England  next  week," 
and  hung  up  the  receiver.  The  Lieutenant 
swung  around  in  his  chair,  and  stared  at  me  in 
blank  astonishment.  A  sinking  sensation  came 
over  me,  but  I  defiantly 'answered  his  look  with, 
"Well,  it's  so.  I'm  going."  And  I  went. 

The  trip  across  was  uneventful.  I  landed  at 
Tilbury,  England,  then  got  into  a  string  of  match- 
box cars  and  proceeded  to  London,  arriving  there 
about  TO  P.M.  I  took  a  room  in  a  hotel  near 
St.  Pancras  Station  for  "five  and  six — fire  extra." 


4  Over  the  Top 

The  room  was  minus  the  fire,  but  the  "extra" 
seemed  to  keep  me  warm.  That  night  there  was 
a  Zeppelin  raid,  but  I  didn't  see  much  of  it, 
because  the  slit  in  the  curtains  was  too  small 
and  I  had  no  desire  to  make  it  larger.  Next 
morning  the  telephone  bell  rang,  and  someone 
asked,  "Are  you  there?"  I  was,  hardly.  Any- 
way, I  learned  that  the  Zeps  had  returned  to 
their  Fatherland,  so  I  went  out  into  the  street 
expecting  to  see  scenes  of  awful  devastation  and 
a  cowering  populace,  but  everything  was  normal. 
People  were  calmly  proceeding  to  their  work. 
Crossing  the  street,  I  accosted  a  Bobbie  with: 

"Can  you  direct  me  to  the  place  of  damage?" 

He  asked  me,  "What  damage ?" 

In  surprise,  I  answered,  "Why,  the  damage 
caused  by  the  Zeps. " 

With  a  wink,  he  replied : 

"There  was  no  damage,  we  missed  them  again." 

After  several  fruitless  inquiries  of  the  passers- 
by,  I  decided  to  go  on  my  own  in  search  of  ruined 
buildings  and  scenes  of  destruction.  I  boarded 
a  bus  which  carried  me  through  Tottenham  Court 
Road.  Recruiting  posters  were  everywhere.  The 
one  that  impressed  me  most  was  a  life-size  picture 
of  Lord  Kitchener  with  his  finger  pointing  directly 


From  Mufti  to  Khaki  5 

at  me,  under  the  caption  of  "Your  King  and 
Country  Need  You."  No  matter  which  way  I 
turned,  the  accusing  finger  followed  me.  I  was 
an  American,  in  mufti,  and  had  a  little  American 
flag  in  the  lapel  of  my  coat.  I  had  no  king,  and 
my  country  had  seen  fit  not  to  need  me,  but  still 
that  pointing  finger  made  me  feel  small  and  ill  at 
ease.  I  got  off  the  bus  to  try  to  dissipate  this 
feeling  by  mixing  with  the  throng  of  the  sidewalks. 

Presently  I  came  to  a  recruiting  office.  Inside, 
sitting  at  a  desk  was  a  lonely  Tommy  Atkins. 
I  decided  to  interview  him  in  regard  to  joining 
the  British  Army.  I  opened  the  door.  He  looked 
up  and  greeted  me  with  "I  s'y,  myte,  want  to 
tyke  on?" 

I  looked  at  him  and  answered,  "Well,  whatever 
that  is,  I'll  take  a  chance  at  it." 

Without  the  aid  of  an  interpreter,  I  found  out 
that  Tommy  wanted  to  know  if  I  cared  to  join 
the  British  Army.  He  asked  me:  "Did  you  ever 
hear  of  the  Royal  Fusiliers?"  Well,  in  London 
you  know,  Yanks  are  supposed  to  know  everything, 
so  I  was  not  going  to  appear  ignorant  and  answered, 
"Sure." 

After  listening  for  one  half-hour  to  Tommy's 
tale  of  their  exploits  on  the  firing  line,  I  decided 


6  Over  the  Top 

to  join.  Tommy  took  me  to  the  recruiting 
headquarters  where  I  met  a  typical  English 
Captain.  He  asked  my  nationality.  I  imme- 
diately pulled  out  my  American  passport  and 
showed  ft  to  him.  It  was  signed  by  Lansing, — 
Bryan  had  lost  his  job  a  little  while  previously. 
After  looking  at  the  passport,  he  informed  me 
that  he  was  sorry  but  could  not  enlist  me,  as  it 
would  be  a  breach  of  neutrality.  I  insisted  that 
I  was  not  neutral,  because  to  me  it  seemed  that  a 
real  American  could  not  be  neutral  when  big 
things  were  in  progress,  but  the  Captain  would 
not  enlist  me. 

With  disgust  in  my  heart  I  went  out  in  the 
street.  I  had  gone  about  a  block  when  a  recruit- 
ing Sergeant  who  had  followed  me .  out  of  the 
office  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder  with  his  swagger 
stick  and  said:  "S'y,  I  can  get  you  in  the  Army. 
We  have  a  'Leftenant'  down  at  the  other  office 
who  can  do  anything.  He  has  just  come  out  of 
the  O.  T.  C.  (Officers'  Training  Corps)  and  does 
not  know  what  neutrality  is."  I  decided  to  take 
a  chance,  and  accepted  his  invitation  for  an 
introduction  to  the  Lieutenant.  I  entered  the 
office  and  went  up  to  him,  opened  up  my  passport, 
and  said: 


From  Mufti  to  Khaki  7 

"Before  going  further  I  wish  to  state  that  I 
am  an  American,  not  too  proud  to  fight,  and  want 
to  join  your  army. " 

He  looked  at  me  in  a  nonchalant  manner,  a.id 
answered,  "That's  all  right,  we  take  anything  over 
here." 

I  looked  at  him  kind  of  hard  and  replied,  "So  I 
notice, "  but  it  went  over  his  head. 

He  got  out  an  enlistment  blank,  and  placing 
his  finger  on  a  blank  line  said,  "  Sign  here. " 

I  answered,  "Not  on  your  tintype." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

Then  I  explained  to  him  that  I  would  not  sign 
it  without  first  reading  it.  I  read  it  over  and 
signed  for  duration  of  war.  Some  of  the  recruits 
were  lucky.  They  signed  for  seven  years  only. 

Then  he  asked  me  my  birthplace.  I  answered, 
"Ogden,  Utah." 

He  said,  "Oh  yes,  just  outside  of  New 
York?" 

With  a  smile,  I  replied,  "Well,  it's  up  the 
State  a  little." 

Then  I  was  taken  before  the  doctor  and  passed 
as  physically  fit,  and  was  issued  a  uniform.  When 
I  reported  back  to  the  Lieutenant,  he  suggested 
that,  being  an  American,  I  go  on  recruiting  service 


?  Over  the  Top 

and  try  to  shame  some  of  the  slackers  into  joining 
the  Army. 

"All  you  have  to  do,"  he  said,  "is  to  go  out 
on  the  street,  and  when  you  see  a  young  fellow 
in  mufti  who  looks  physically  fit,  just  stop  him 
and  give  him  this  kind  of  a  talk:  'Aren't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself,  a  Britisher,  physically  fit, 
and  in  mufti  when  your  King  and  Country  need 
you?  Don't  you  know  that  your  country  is  at 
war  and  that  the  place  for  every  young  Briton 
is  on  the  firing  line?  Here  I  am,  an  American, 
in  khaki,  who  came  four  thousand  miles  to  fight 
for  your  King  and  Country,  and  you,  as  yet, 
have  not  enlisted.  Why  don't  you  join?  Now 
is  the  time/ 

"This  argument  ought  to  get  many  recruits, 
Empey,  so  go  out  and  see  what  you  can  do." 

He  then  gave  me  a  small  rosette  of  red,  white, 
and  blue  ribbon,  with  three  little  streamers 
hanging  down.  This  was  the  recruiting  insignia 
and  was  to  be  worn  on  the  left  side  of  the  cap. 

Armed  with  a  swagger  stick  and  my  patriotic 
rosette  I  went  out  into  Tottenham  Court  Road 
in  quest  of  cannon  fodder. 

Two  or  three  poorly  dressed  civilians  passed 
me,  and  although  they  appeared  physically  fit, 


From  Mufti  to  Khaki  9 

I  said  to  myself,  "They  don't  want  to  join  the 
army;  perhaps  they  have  someone  dependent 
on  them  for  support,'*  so  I  did  not  accost  them. 

Coming  down  the  street  I  saw  a  young  dandy, 
top  hat  and  all,  with  a  fashionably  dressed  girl 
walking  beside  him.  I  muttered,  "You  are  my 
meat,"  and  when  he  came  abreast  of  me  I  stepped 
directly  in  his  path  and  stopped  him  with  my 
swagger  stick,  saying: 

"You  would  look  fine  in  khaki,  why  not  change 
that  top  hat  for  a  steel  helmet?  Aren't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself,  a  husky  young  chap  like 
you  in  mufti  when  men  are  needed  in  the 
trenches?  Here  I  am,  an  American,  came  four 
thousand  miles  from  Ogden,  Utah,  just  outside 
of  New  York,  to  fight  for  your  King  and  Country. 
Don't  be  a  slacker,  buck  up  and  get  into  uniform ; 
come  over  to  the  recruiting  office  and  I'll  have 
you  enlisted." 

He  yawned  and  answered,  "I  don't  care  if  you 
came  forty  thousand  miles,  no  one  asked  you  to," 
and  he  walked  on.  The  girl  gave  me  a  sneering 
look;  I  was  speechless. 

I  recruited  for  three  weeks  and  nearly  got  one 
recruit. 

This  perhaps  was  not  the  greatest  stunt  in  the 


io  Over  the  Top 

world,  but  it  got  back  at  the  officer  who  had  told 
me,  "Yes,  we  take  anything  over  here."  I  had 
been  spending  a  good  lot  of  my  recruiting  time 
in  the  saloon  bar  of  the  "Wheat  Sheaf"  pub 
(there  was  a  very  attractive  blonde  barmaid, 
who  helped  kill  time — I  was  not  as  serious  in 
those  days  as  I  was  a  little  later  when  I  reached 
the  front) — well,  it  was  the  sixth  day  and  my 
recruiting  report  was  blank.  I  was  getting  low 
in  the  pocket — barmaids  haven't  much  use 
for  anyone  who  cannot  buy  drinks — so  I  looked 
around  for  recruiting  material.  You  know  a  man 
on  recruiting  service  gets  a  "bob"  or  shilling  for 
every  recruit  he  entices  into  joining  the  army,  the 
recruit  is  supposed  to  get  this,  but  he  would  not 
be  a  recruit  if  he  were  wise  to  this  fact,  would  he? 
Down  at  the  end  of  the  bar  was  a  young  fellow 
in  mufti  who  was  very  patriotic — he  had  about 
four  "Old  Six"  ales  aboard.  He  asked  me  if  he 
could  join,  showed  me  his  left  hand,  two  fingers 
were  missing,  but  I  said  that  did  not  matter  as 
"we  take  anything  over  here."  The  left  hand  is 
the  rifle  hand  as  the  piece  is  carried  at  the  slope 
on  the  left  shoulder.  Nearly  everything  in 
England  is  "by  the  left,"  even  general  traffic 
keeps  to  the  port  side. 


From  Mufti  to  Khaki  11 

I  took  the  applicant  over  to  headquarters 
where  he  was  hurriedly  examined.  Recruiting 
surgeons  were  busy  in  those  days  and  did  not  have 
much  time  for  thorough  physical  examinations. 
My  recruit  was  passed  as  "fit"  by  the  doctor  and 
turned  over  to  a  Corporal  to  make  note  of  his 
scars.  I  was  mystified.  Suddenly  the  Corporal 
burst  out  with,  "Blime  me,  two  of  his  fingers  are 
gone";  turning  to  me  he  said,  "You  certainly 
have  your  nerve  with  you,  not  'alf  you  ain't,  to 
bring  this  beggar  in." 

The  doctor  came  over  and  exploded,  "What  do 
you  mean  by  bringing  in  a  man  in  this  condition.?" 

Looking  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye  I  noticed 
that  the  officer  who  had  recruited  me  had  joined 
the  group,  and  I  could  not  help  answering,  "Well, 
sir,  I  was  told  that  you  took  anything  over  here." 

I  think  they  called  it  "Yankee  impudence/7 
anyhow  it  ended  my  recruiting. 


CHAPTER  II 

BLIGHTY  TO  REST  BILLETS 

T^HE  next  morning,  the  Captain  sent  for  me 
*      and  informed  me:  "Empey,  as  a  recruiting 
Sergeant  you  are  a  washout,"  and  sent  me  to  a 
training  depot. 

After  arriving  at  this  place,  I  was  hustled  to 
the  quartermaster  stores  and  received  an  awful 
shock.  The  Quartermaster  Sergeant  spread  a 
waterproof  sheet  on  the  ground,  and  commenced 
throwing  a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  straps, 
buckles,  and  other  paraphernalia  into  it.  I  thought 
he  would  never  stop,  but  when  the  pile  reached  to 
my  knees  he  paused  long  enough  to  say,  "Next, 
No.  5217,  'Arris,  'B'  Company."  I  gazed  in 
bewilderment  at  the  pile  of  junk  in  front  of  me, 
and  then  my  eyes  wandered  around  looking  for 
the  wagon  which  was  to  carry  it  to  the  barracks. 
I  was  rudely  brought  to  earth  by  the  "Quarter" 
exclaiming,  "'Ere,  you,  'op  it,  tyke  it  aw'y;  blind 

12 


Blighty  to  Rest  Billets  13 

my  eyes,  Vs  looking  for  'is  batman  to  'elp  'im 
carry  it." 

Struggling  under  the  load,  with  frequent  pauses 
for  rest,  I  reached  our  barracks  (large  car  barns), 
and  my  platoon  leader  came  to  the  rescue.  It 
was  a  marvel  to  me  how  quickly  he  assembled  the 
equipment.  After  he  had  completed  the  task,  he 
showed  me  how  to  adjust  it  on  my  person.  Pretty 
soon  I  stood  before  him  a  proper  Tommy  Atkins 
in  heavy  marching  order,  feeling  like  an  overloaded 
camel. 

On  my  feet  were  heavy-soled  boots,  studded  with 
hobnails,  the  toes  and  heels  of  which  were  rein- 
forced by  steel  half-moons.  My  legs  were  encased 
in  woolen  puttees,  olive  drab  in  color,  with  my 
trousers  overlapping  them  at  the  top.  Then  a 
woolen  khaki  tunic,  under  which  was  a  bluish- 
gray  woolen  shirt,  minus  a  collar,  beneath  this 
shirt  a  woolen  belly-band  about  six  inches  wide, 
held  in  place  by  tie  strings  of  white  tape.  On  my 
head  was  a  heavy  woolen  trench  cap,  with  huge 
ear  laps  buttoned  over  the  top.  Then  the  equip- 
ment: A  canvas  belt,  with  ammunition  pockets, 
and  two  wide  canvas  straps  like  suspenders, 
called  "D"  straps,  fastened  to  the  belt  in  front, 
passing  over  each  shoulder,  crossing  in  the  middle 


14  Over  the  Top 

of  my  back,  and  attached  by  buckles  to  the  rear 
of  the  belt.  On  the  right  side  of  the  belt  hung  a 
water  bottle,  covered  with  felt;  on  the  left  side  was 
my  bayonet  and  scabbard,  and  entrenching  tool 
handle,  this  handle  strapped  to  the  bayonet 
scabbard.  In  the  rear  was  my  entrenching  tool, 
carried  in  a  canvas  case.  This  tool  was  a  combina- 
tion pick  and  spade.  A  canvas  haversack  was 
strapped  to  the  left  side  of  the  belt,  while  on  my 
back  was  the  pack,  also  of  canvas,  held  in  place  by 
two  canvas  straps  over  the  shoulders;  suspended 
on  the  bottom  of  the  pack  was  my  mess  tin  or 
canteen  in  a  neat  little  canvas  case.  My  water- 
proof sheet,  looking  like  a  jelly  roll,  was  strapped 
on  top  of  the  pack,  with  a  wooden  stick  for  clean- 
ing the  breach  of  the  rifle  projecting  from  each 
end.  On  a  lanyard  around  my  waist  hung  a  huge 
jackknife  with  a  can-opener  attachment.  The 
pack~contained  my  overcoat,  an  extra  pair  of  socks, 
change  of  underwear,  hold-all  (containing  knife, 
fork,  spoon,  comb,  toothbrush,  lather  brush,  shav- 
ing soap,  and  a  razor  made  of  tin,  with  "Made  in 
England"  stamped  on  the  blade;  when  trying  to 
shave  with  this  it  made  you  wish  that  you  were 
at  war  with  Patagonia,  so  that  you  could  have  a 
"hollow  ground"  stamped  "Made  in  Germany"); 


Blighty  to  Rest  Billets  15 

then  your  housewife,  button-cleaning  outfit,  con- 
sisting of  a  brass  button  stick,  two  stiff  brushes,  and 
a  box  of  "Soldiers'  Friend"  paste;  then  a  shoe 
brush  and  a  box  of  dubbin,  a  writing  pad,  indelible 
pencil,  envelopes,  and  pay  book,  and  personal 
belongings,  such  as  a  small  mirror,  a  decent  razor, 
and  a  sheaf  of  unanswered  letters,  and  fags. 
In  your  haversack  you  carry  your  iron  rations, 
meaning  a  tin  of  bully  beef,  four  biscuits,  and  a 
can  containing  tea,  sugar,  and  Oxo  cubes;  a  couple 
of  pipes  and  a  package  of  shag,  a  tin  of  rifle 
oil,  and  a  pull-through.  Tommy  generally  carries 
the  oil  with  his  rations;  it  gives  the  cheese  a  sort  of 
sardine  taste. 

Add  to  this  a  first-aid  pouch  and  a  long  ungainly 
rifle  patterned  after  the  Daniel  Boone  period, 
and  you  have  an  idea  of  a  British  soldier  in 
Blighty. 

Before  leaving  for  France,  this  rifle  is  taken  from 
him  and  he  is  issued  with  a  Lee-Enfield  short- 
trench  rifle  and  a  ration  bag. 

In  France  he  receives  two  gas  helmets,  a  sheep- 
skin coat,  rubber  mackintosh,  steel  helmet,  two 
blankets,  tear-shell  goggles,  a  balaclava  helmet, 
gloves,  and  a  tin  of  anti-frostbite  grease  which  is 
excellent  for  greasing  the  boots.  Add  to  this  the 


16  Over  the  Top 

weight  of  his  rations,  and  can  you  blame  Tommy 
for  growling  at  a  twenty  kilo  route  march? 

Having  served  as  Sergeant-Major  in  the  United 
States  Cavalry,  I  tried  to  tell  the  English  drill 
sergeants  their  business  but  it  did  not  work.  They 
immediately  put  me  as  batman  in  their  mess. 
Many  a  greasy  dish  of  stew  was  accidentally  spilled 
over  them. 

I  would  sooner  fight  than  be  a  waiter,  so  when 
the  order  came  through  from  headquarters  call- 
ing for  a  draft  of  250  reinforcements  for  France,  I 
volunteered. 

Then  we  went  before  the  M.  0.  (Medical  Officer) 
for  another  physical  examination.  This  was  very 
brief.  He  asked  our  names  and  numbers  and  said, 
"Fit, "  and  we  went  out  to  fight. 

We  were  put  into  troop  trains  and  sent  to  South- 
ampton, where  we  detrained,  and  had  our  trench 
rifles  issued  to  us.  Then  in  columns  of  twos  we 
went  up  the  gangplank  of  a  little  steamer  lying 
alongside  the  dock. 

At  the  head  of  the  gangplank  there  was  an  old 
Sergeant  who  directed  that  we  line  ourselves  along 
both  rails  of  the  ship.  Then  he  ordered  us  to  take 
life  belts  from  the  racks  overhead  and  put  them 
on.  I  have  crossed  the  ocean  several  times  and 


Blighty  to  Rest  Billets  17 

knew  I  was  not  seasick,  but  when  I  buckled  on 
that  life  belt,  I  had  a  sensation  of  sickness. 

After  we  got  out  into  the  stream  all  I  could  think 
of  was  that  there  were  a  million  German  submar- 
ines with  a  torpedo  on  each,  across  the  warhead  of 
which  was  inscribed  my  name  and  address. 

After  five  hours  we  came  alongside  a  pier  and 
disembarked.  I  had  attained  another  one  of  my 
ambitions.  I  was  "somewhere  in  France."  We 
slept  in  the  open  that  night  on  the  side  of  a  road. 
About  six  the  next  morning  we  were  ordered  to 
entrain.  I  looked  around  for  the  passenger 
coaches,  but  all  I  could  see  on  the  siding  were  cattle 
cars.  We  climbed  into  these.  On  the  side  of  each 
car  was  a  sign  reading  "Homines  40,  Chevaux 
8."  When  we  got  inside  of  the  cars,  we  thought 
that  perhaps  the  sign  painter  had  reversed  the 
order  of  things.  After  forty-eight  hours  in  these 
trucks  we  detrained  at  Rouen.  At  this  place  we 
went  through  an  intensive  training  for  ten  days. 

This  training  consisted  of  the  rudiments  of 
trench  warfare.  Trenches  had  been  dug,  with 
barbed-wire  entanglements,  bombing  saps,  dug- 
outs, observation  posts,  and  machine-gun  emplace- 
ments. We  were  given  a  smattering  of  trench 
cooking,  sanitation,  bomb  throwing,  reconnoiter- 


i8  Over  the  Top 

ing,  listening  posts,  constructing  and  repairing 
barbed  wire,  "carrying  in"  parties,  methods  used 
in  attack  and  defense,  wiring  parties,  mass  forma- 
tion, and  the  procedure  for  poison-gas  attacks. 

On  the  tenth  day  we  again  met  our  friends 
"  Hommes  40,  Chevaux  8. "  Thirty-six  hours 
more  of  misery,  and  we  arrived  at  the  town  of 
F . 

After  unloading  our  rations  and  equipment, 
we  lined  up  on  the  road  in  columns  of  fours  wait- 
ing for  the  order  to  march. 

A  dull  rumbling  could  be  heard.  The  sun  was 
shining.  I  turned  to  the  man  on  my  left  and 
asked,  "What's  the  noise,  Bill?"  He  did  not 
know,  but  his  face  was  of  a  pea-green  color.  Jim 
on  my  right  also  did  not  know,  but  suggested  that 
I  "awsk"  the  Sergeant. 

Coming  towards  us  was  an  old  grizzled  Sergeant, 
properly  fed  up  with  the  war,  so  I  "awsked"  him. 

"Think  it's  going  to  rain,  Sergeant?" 

He  looked  at  me  in  contempt,  and  grunted, 
"'Ow's  it  a'goin*  ter  rain  with  the  bloomin'  sun 
a  'shinin'?"  I  looked  guilty. 

"Them's  the  guns  up  the  line,  me  lad,  and 
you'll  get  enough  of  'em  before  you  gets  back  to 
Blighty." 


Blighty  to  Rest  Billets  19 

My  knees  seemed  to  wilt,  and  I  squeaked  out  a 
weak  "Oh!" 

Then  we  started  our  march  up  to  the  line  in 
ten  kilo  treks.  After  the  first  day's  march  we 
arrived  at  our  rest  billets.  In  France  they  call 
them  rest  billets,  because  while  in  them,  Tommy 
works  seven  days  a  week  and  on  the  eighth  day 
of  the  week  he  is  given  twenty-four  hours  "on  his 
own." 

Our  billet  was  a  spacious  affair,  a  large  barn  on 
the  left  side  of  the  road,  which  had  one  hundred 
entrances,  ninety-nine  for  shells,  rats,  wind,  and 
rain,  and  the  hundredth  one  for  Tommy.  I  was 
tired  out,  and  using  my  shrapnel-proof  helmet, 
(shrapnel  proof  until  a  piece  of  shrapnel  hits  it),  or 
tin  hat,  for  a  pillow,  lay  down  in  the  straw,  and 
was  soon  fast  asleep.  I  must  have  slept  about  two 
hours,  when  I  awoke  with  a  prickling  sensation  all 
over  me.  As  I  thought,  the  straw  had  worked 
through  my  uniform.  I  woke  up  the  fellow  lying 
on  my  left,  who  had  been  up  the  line  before,  and 
asked  him, 

' '  Does  the  straw  bother  you,  mate  ?  It's  worked 
through  my  uniform  and  I  can't  sleep. " 

In  a  sleepy  voice,  he  answered,  "That  ain't 
straw,  them's  cooties. " 


20  Over  the  Top 

From  that  time  on  my  friends  the  "cooties*' 
were  constantly  with  me. 

"Cooties,"  or  body  lice,  are  the  bane  of  Tommy's 
existence. 

The  aristocracy  of  the  trenches  very  seldom  call 
them  "cooties, "  they  speak  of  them  as  fleas. 

To  an  American,  flea  means  a  small  insect  armed 
with  a  bayonet,  who  is  wont  to  jab  it  into  you  and 
then  hop,  skip,  and  jump  to  the  next  place  to  be  at- 
tacked. There  is  an  advantage  in  having  fleas  on 
you  instead  of  "cooties"  in  that  in  one  of  his  ex- 
tended jumps  said  flea  is  liable  to  land  on  the  fellow 
next  to  you ;  he  has  the  typical  energy  and  push 
of  the  American,  while  the  "cootie"  has  the  bull- 
dog tenacity  of  the  Englishman,  he  holds  on  and 
consolidates  or  digs  in  until  his  meal  is  finished. 

There  is  no  way  to  get  rid  of  them  permanently. 
No  matter  how  often  you  bathe,  and  that  is  not 
very  often,  or  how  many  times  you  change  your 
underwear,  your  friends,  the  "cooties"  are  always 
in  evidence.  The  billets  are  infested  with  them, 
especially  so,  if  there  is  straw  on  the  floor. 

I  have  taken  a  bath  and  put  on  brand-new  under- 
wear; in  fact,  a  complete  change  of  uniform,  and 
then  turned  in  for  the  night.  The  next  morning 
my  shirt  would  be  full  of  them.  It  is  a  common 


Blighty  to  Rest  Billets  21 

sight  to  see  eight  or  ten  soldiers  sitting  under  a 
tree  with  their  shirts  over  their  knees  engaging  in  a 
"shirt  hunt." 

At  night  about  half  an  hour  before  "  lights  out," 
you  can  see  the  Tommies  grouped  around  a  candle, 
trying,  in  its  dim  light,  to  rid  their  underwear  of  the 
vermin.  A  popular  and  very  quick  method  is  to 
take  your  shirt  and  drawers,  and  run  the  seams 
back  and  forward  in  the  flame  from  the  candle  and 
burn  them  out.  This  practice  is  dangerous,  be- 
cause you  are  liable  to  burn  holes  in  the  garments 
if  you  are  not  careful. 

Recruits  generally  sent  to  Blighty  for  a  brand  of 
insect  powder  advertised  as  "Good  for  body  lice. " 
The  advertisement  is  quite  right;  the  powder  is 
good  for  "cooties, "  they  simply  thrive  on  it. 

The  older  men  of  our  battalion  were  wiser  and 
made  scratchers  out  of  wood.  These  were  rubbed 
smooth  with  a  bit  of  stone  or  sand  to  prevent  splin- 
ters. They  were  about  eighteen  inches  long,  and 
Tommy  guarantees  that  a  scratcher  of  this  length 
will  reach  any  part  of  the  body  which  may  be 
attacked.  Some  of  the  fellows  were  lazy  and  only 
made  their  scratchers  twelve  inches,  but  many  a 
night  when  on  guard,  looking  over  the  top  from  the 
fire  step  of  the  front-line  trench,  they  would  have 


22  Over  the  Top 

given  a  thousand  "quid"  for  the  other  six  inches. 

Once  while  we  were  in  rest  billets  an  Irish  Hussar 
regiment  camped  in  an  open  field  opposite  our 
billet.  After  they  had  picketed  and  fed  their 
horses,  a  general  shirt  hunt  took  place.  The 
troopers  ignored  the  call  "Dinner  up,"  and  kept  on 
with  their  search  for  big  game.  They  had  a  curi- 
ous method  of  procedure.  They  hung  their  shirts 
over  a  hedge  and  beat  them  with  their  entrenching 
tool  handles. 

I  asked  one  of  them  why  they  didn't  pick  them 
off  by  hand,  and  he  answered,  "We  haven't  had  a 
bath  for  nine  weeks  or  a  change  of  clabber.  If  I 
tried  to  pick  the  'cooties'  off  my  shirt,  I  would  be 
here  for  duration  of  war."  After  taking  a  close 
look  at  his  shirt,  I  agreed  with  him,  it  was  alive. 

The  greatest  shock  a  recruit  gets  when  he  arrives 
at  his  battalion  in  France  is  to  see  the  men  engag- 
ing in  a  "cootie"  hunt.  With  an  air  of  contempt 
and  disgust  he  avoids  the  company  of  the  older 
men,  until  a  couple  of  days  later,  in  a  torment  of 
itching,  he  also  has  to  resort  to  a  shirt  hunt,  or 
spend  many  a  sleepless  night  of  misery.  During 
these  hunts  there  are  lots  of  pertinent  remarks 
bandied  back  and  forth  among  the  explorers,  such 
as,  "Say,  Bill,  I'll  swap  you  two  little  ones  for  a 


Blighty  to  Rest  Billets  23 

big  one,"  or,  "I've  got  a  black  one  here  that  looks 
like  Kaiser  Bill. " 

One  sunny  day  in  the  front-line  trench,  I  saw 
three  officers  sitting  outside  of  their  dugout 
("cooties"  are  no  respecters  of  rank;  I  have  even 
noticed  a  suspicious  uneasiness  about  a  certain 
well-known  general),  one  of  them  was  a  major,  two 
of  them  were  exploring  their  shirts,  paying  no 
attention  to  the  occasional  shells  which  passed 
overhead.  The  major  was  writing  a  letter;  every 
now  and  then  he  would  lay  aside  his  writing-pad, 
search  his  shirt  for  a  few  minutes,  get  an  inspira- 
tion, and  then  resume  writing.  At  last  he 
finished  his  letter  and  gave  it  to  his  "runner. "  I 
was  curious  to  see  whether  he  was  writing  to  an 
insect  firm,  so  when  the  runner  passed  me  I  en- 
gaged him  in  conversation  and  got  a  glimpse  at  the 
address  on  the  envelope.  It  was  addressed  to 
Miss  Alice  Somebody,  in  London.  The  "runner" 
informed  me  that  Miss  Somebody  was  the  major's 
sweetheart  and  that  he  wrote  to  her  every  day. 
Just  imagine  it,  writing  a  love  letter  during  a 
"cootie"  hunt;  but  such  is  the  creed  of  the 
trenches.  ' 


CHAPTER  III 

I  GO  TO  CHURCH 

UPON  enlistment  we  had  identity  disks  issued  to 
us.  These  were  small  disks  of  red  fiber  worn 
around  the  neck  by  means  of  a  string.  Most  of  the 
Tommies  also  used  a  little  metal  disk  which  they 
wore  around  the  left  wrist  by  means  of  a  chain. 
They  had  previously  figured  it  out  that  if  their 
heads  were  blown  off,  the  disk  on  the  left  wrist 
would  identify  them.  If  they  lost  their  left  arm 
the  disk  around  the  neck  would  serve  the  pur- 
pose, but  if  their  head  and  left  arm  were  blown 
off,  no  one  would  care  who  they  were,  so  it  did 
not  matter.  On  one  side  of  the  disk  was  inscribed 
your  rank,  name,  number,  and  battalion,  while  on 
the  other  was  stamped  your  religion. 

C.  of  E.,  meaning  Church  of  England;  R.  C., 
Roman  Catholic;  W.,  Wesleyan;  P.,  Presbyterian; 
but  if  you  happened  to  be  an  atheist  they  left  it 
blank,  and  just  handed  you  a  pick  and  shovel. 

24 


I  go  to  Church  25 

On  my  disk  was  stamped  C.  of  E.  This  is  how  I 
got  it :  The  Lieutenant  who  enlisted  me  asked  my 
religion.  I  was  not  sure  of  the  religion  of  the 
British  Army,  so  I  answered,  "Oh,  any  old  thing," 
and  he  promptly  put  down  C.  of  E. 

Now,  just  imagine  my  hard  luck.  Out  of  five 
religions  I  was  unlucky  enough  to  pick  the  only 
one  where  church  parade  was  compulsory! 

The  next  morning  was  Sunday.  I  was  sitting 
in  the  billet  writing  home  to  my  sister  telling  her 
of  my  wonderful  exploits  while  under  fire — all  re- 
cruits do  this.  The  Sergeant-Major  put  his  head 
in  the  door  of  the  billet  and  shouted:  "C.  of  E. 
outside  for  church  parade!" 

I  kept  on  writing.  Turning  to  me,  in  a  loud 
voice,  he  asked,  "Empey,  aren't  you  C.  of  E.?" 

I   answered,    "Yep." 

In  an  angry  tone,  he  commanded,  "Don't 
you  'yep'  me.  Say,  'Yes,  Sergeant-Major." 

I  did  so.  Somewhat  mollified,  he  ordered, 
"Outside  for  church  parade." 

I  looked  up  and  answered,  "I  am  not  going  to 
church  this  morning. " 

He  said,  "Oh,  yes,  you  are!" 

I  answered,  "Oh,  no,  I'm  not!" — But  I  went. 

We  lined  up  outside  with  rifles  and  bayonets, 


26  Over  the  Top 

1 20  rounds  of  ammunition,  wearing  our  tin  hats, 
and  the  march  to  church  began.  After  marching 
about  five  kilos,  we  turned  off  the  road  into  an 
open  field.  At  one  end  of  this  field  the  Chaplain 
was  standing  in  a  limber.  We  formed  a  semi- 
circle around  him.  Over  head  there  was  a  black 
speck  circling  round  and  round  in  the  sky.  This 
was  a  German  Fokker.  The  Chaplain  had  a  book 
in  his  left  hand — left  eye  on  the  book — right  eye 
on  the  aeroplane.  We  Tommies  were  lucky,  we 
had  no  books,  so  had  both  eyes  on  the  aeroplane. 
After  church  parade  we  were  marched  back  to 
V  our  billets,  and  played  football  all  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  IV 


"INTO  THE  TRENCH" 


HTHE  next  morning  the  draft  was  inspected  by 
•*•  our  General,  and  we  were  assigned  to  differ- 
ent companies.  The  boys  in  the  Brigade  had 
nicknamed  this  general  Old  Pepper,  and  he  cer- 
tainly earned  the  sobriquet.  I  was  assigned  to  B 
Company  with  another  American  named  Stewart. 

For  the  next  ten  days  we  "rested,"  repairing 
roads  for  the  Frenchies,  drilling,  and  digging  bomb- 
ing trenches. 

One  morning  we  were  informed  that  we  were 
going  up  the  line,  and  our  march  began. 

It  took  us  three  days  to  reach  reserve  billets — 
each  day's  march  bringing  the  sound  of  the  guns 
nearer  and  nearer.  At  night,  way  off  in  the  dis- 
tance we  could  see  their  flashes,  which  lighted  up 
the  sky  with  a  red  glare. 

Against  the  horizon  we  could  see  numerous  ob- 
servation balloons  or  "sausages  "  as  they  are  called. 

27 


28  Over  the  Top 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day's  march  I 
witnessed  my  first  aeroplane  being  shelled.  A 
thrill  ran  through  me  and  I  gazed  in  awe.  The 
aeroplane  was  making  wide  circles  in  the  air, 
while  little  puffs  of  white  smoke  were  bursting  all 
around  it.  These  puffs  appeared  like  tiny  balls  of 
cotton  while  after  each  burst  could  be  heard  a 
dull  "plop."  The  Sergeant  of  my  platoon  in- 
formed us  that  it  was  a  German  aeroplane  and  I 
wondered  how  he  could  tell  from  such  a  distance 
because  the  plane  deemed  like  a  little  black  speck 
in  the  sky.  I  expressed  my  doubt  as  to  whether 
it  was  English,  French,  or  German.  With  a  look 
of  contempt  he  further  informed  us  that  the  allied 
anti-aircraft  shells  when  exploding  emitted  white 
smoke  while  the  German  shells  gave  forth  black 
smoke,  and,  as  he  expressed  it,  "It  must  be  an 
Allemand  because  our  pom-poms  are  shelling,  and 
I  know  our  batteries  are  not  off  their  bally  nappers 
and  are  certainly  not  strafeing  our  own  planes,  and 
another  piece  of  advice — don't  chuck  your  weight 
about  until  you've  been  up  the  line  and  learnt 
something." 

I  immediately  quit  "chucking  my  weight  about " 
from  that  time  on. 

Just  before  reaching  reserve  billets  we  were 


14  Into  the  Trench  "  29 

marching    along,    laughing,  and    singing   one   of 
Tommy's  trench  ditties — 


"  I  want  to  go  home,  I  want  to  go  home, 
I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  trenches  no  more 
Where  sausages  and  whizz-bangs  are  galore. 
Take  me  over  the  sea,  where  the  Allemand  can't  get 

at  me, 

Oh,  my,  I  don't  want  to  die, 
I  want  to  go  home  " — 

when  overhead  came  a  "swish"  through  the  air, 
rapidly  followed  by  three  others.  Then  about 
two  hundred  yards  to  our  left  in  a  large  field,  four 
columns  of  black  earth  and  smoke  rose  into  the  air, 
and  the  ground  trembled  from  the  report, — the 
explosion  of  four  German  five-nine's,  or  "coal- 
boxes."  A  sharp  whistle  blast,  immediately  fol- 
lowed by  two  short  ones,  rang  out  from  the  head 
of  our  column.  This  was  to  take  up  "artillery 
formation."  We  divided  into  small  squads  and 
went  into  the  fields  on  the  right  and  left  of  the 
road,  and  crouched  on  the  ground.  No  other  shells 
followed  this  salvo.  It  was  our  first  baptism  by 
shell  fire.  From  the  waist  up  I  was  all  enthusiasm, 
but  from  there  down,  everything  was  missing.  I 
thought  I  should  die  with  fright. 


30  Over  the  Top 

After  awhile,  we  re-formed  into  columns  of 
fours,  and  proceeded  on  our  way. 

About  five  that  night,  we  reached  the  ruined 

village  of  H ,  and  I  got  my  first  sight  of  the 

awful  destruction  caused  by  German  Kultur. 

Marching  down  the  main  street  we  came  to  the 
heart  of  the  village,  and  took  up  quarters  in  shell- 
proof  cellars  (shell  proof  until  hit  by  a  shell). 
Shells  were  constantly  whistling  over  the  village 
and  bursting  in  our  rear,  searching  for  our  artillery. 

These  cellars  were  cold,  damp,  and  smelly,  and 
overrun  with  large  rats — big  black  fellows.  Most 
of  the  Tommies  slept  with  their  overcoats  over 
their  faces.  I  did  not.  In  the  middle  of  the  night 
I  woke  up  in  terror.  The  cold,  clammy  feet  of  a 
rat  had  passed  over  my  face.  I  immediately 
smothered  myself  in  my  overcoat,  but  could  not 
sleep  for  the  rest  of  that  night. 

Next  evening,  we  took  over  our  sectcr  of  the 
line.  In  single  file  we  wended  our  way  through  a 
zigzag  communication  trench,  six  inches  deep  with 
mud.  This  trench  was  called  "Whiskey  Street." 
On  our  way  up  to  the  front  line  an  occasional  flare 
of  bursting  shrapnel  would  light  up  the  sky  and 
we  could  hear  the  fragments  slapping  the  ground 
above  us  on  our  right  and  left.  Then  a  Fritz 


mm 

iz&l!  /. \\iwk 


14  Into  the  Trench  "  31 

would  traverse  back  and  forth  with  his  "type- 
writer" or  machine  gun.  The  bullets  made  a 
sharp  cracking  noise  overhead. 

The  boy  in  front  of  me  named  Prentice  crumpled 
up  without  a  word.  A  piece  of  shell  had  gone 
through  his  shrapnel-proof  helmet.  I  felt  sick  and 
weak. 

In  about  thirty  minutes  we  reached  the  front 
line.  It  was  dark  as  pitch.  Every  now  and  then 
a  German  star  shell  would  pierce  the  blackness  out 
in  front  with  its  silvery  light.  I  was  trembling  all 
over,  and  felt  very  lonely  and  afraid.  All  orders 
were  given  in  whispers.  The  company  we  relieved 
filed  past  us  and  disappeared  into  the  blackness  of 
the  communication  trench  leading  to  the  rear.  As 
they  passed  us,  they  whispered,  "The  best  o'  luck 
mates." 

I  sat  on  the  fire  step  of  the  trench  with  the  rest 
of  the  men.  In  each  traverse  two  of  the  older 
men  had  been  put  on  guard  with  their  heads  stick- 
ing over  the  top,  and  with  their  eyes  trying  to 
pierce  the  blackness  in  "No  Man's  Land."  In 
this  trench  there  were  only  two  dugouts,  and  these 
were  used  by  Lewis  and  Vickers,  machine  gunners, 
so  it  was  the  fire  step  for  ours.  Pretty  soon  it 
started  to  rain.  We  put  on  our  "inacks,"  but 


32  Over  the  Top 

they  were  not  much  protection.  The  rain  trickled 
down  our  backs,  and  it  was  not  long  before  we  were 
wet  and  cold.  How  I  passed  that  night  I  will 
never  know,  but  without  any  unusual  occurrence, 
dawn  arrived. 

The  word  "stand  down"  was  passed  along  the 
line,  and  the  sentries  got  down  off  the  fire  step. 
Pretty  soon  the  rum  issue  came  along,  and  it  was 
a  Godsend.  It  warmed  our  chilled  bodies  and  put 
new  life  into  us.  Then  from  the  communication 
trenches  came  dixies  or  iron  pots,  filled  with  steam- 
ing tea,  which  had  two  wooden  stakes  through  their 
handles,  and  were  carried  by  two  men.  I  filled 
my  canteen  and  drank  the  hot  tea  without  taking 
it  from  my  lips.  It  was  not  long  before  I  was 
asleep  in  the  mud  on  the  fire  step. 

My  ambition  had  been  attained!  I  was  in  a 
front-line  trench  on  the  Western  Front,  and  oh, 
how  I  wished  I  were  back  in  Jersey  City. 


CHAPTER  V 

MUD,  RATS,  AND  SHELLS 

T  MUST  have  slept  for  two  or  three  hours,  not 
*  the  refreshing  kind  that  results  from  clean 
sheets  and  soft  pillows,  but  the  sleep  that  comes 
from  cold,  wet,  and  sheer  exhaustion. 

Suddenly,  the  earth  seemed  to  shake  and  a 
thunderclap  burst  in  my  ears.  I  opened  my 
eyes, —  I  was  splashed  all  over  with  sticky  mud, 
and  men  were  picking  themselves  up  from  the 
bottom  of  the  trench.  The  parapet  on  my  left 
had  toppled  into  the  trench,  completely  blocking 
it  with  a  wall  of  tossed-up  earth.  The  man  on  my 
left  lay  still.  I  rubbed  the  mud  from  my  face, 
and  an  awful  sight  met  my  gaze — his  head  was 
smashed  to  a  pulp,  and  his  steel  helmet  was  full  of 
brains  and  blood.  A  German  "Minnie"  (trench 
mortar)  had  exploded  in  the  next  traverse.  Men 
were  digging  into  the  soft  mass  of  mud  in  a  frenzy 
of  haste.  Stretcher-bearers  came  up  the  trench 
a  33 


34  Over  the  Top 

on  the  double.  After  a  few  minutes  of  digging, 
three  still,  muddy  forms  on  stretchers  were  carried 
down  the  communication  trench  to  the  rear. 
Soon  they  would  be  resting  "somewhere  .in 
France,"  with  a  little  wooden  cross  over  their 
heads.  They  had  done  their  bit  for  King  and 
Country,  had  died  without  firing  a  shot,  but  their 
services  were  appreciated,  nevertheless. 

Later  on,  I  found  out  their  names.  They 
belonged  to  our  draft. 

I  was  dazed  and  motionless.  Suddenly  a 
shovel  was  pushed  into  my  hands,  and  a  rough 
but  kindly  voice  said : 

"Here,  my  lad,  lend  a  hand  clearing  the  trench, 
but  keep  your  head  down,  and  look  out  for  snipers. 
One  of  the  Fritz's  is  a  daisy,  and  he'll  get  you  if 
you're  not  careful." 

Lying  on  my  belly  on  the  bottom  of  the  trench, 
I  filled  sandbags  with  the  sticky  mud,  they 
were  dragged  to  my  rear  by  the  other  men,  and 
the  work  of  rebuilding  the  parapet  was  on.  The 
harder  I  worked,  the  better  I  felt.  Although  the 
weather  was  cold,  I  was  soaked  with  sweat. 

Occasionally  a  bullet  would  crack  overhead, 
and  a  machine  gun  would  kick  up  the  mud  on  the 
bashed -in  parapet.  At  each  crack  I  would  duck 


Mud,  Rats,  and  Shells  35 

and  shield  my  face  with  my  arm.  One  of  the 
older  men  noticed  this  action  of  mine,  and  whis- 
pered : 

"Don't  duck  at  the  crack  of  a  bullet,  Yank; 
the  danger  has  passed, — you  never  hear  the  one 
that  wings  you.  Always  remember  that  if  you 
are  going  to  get  it,  you'll  get  it,  so  never  worry." 

This  made  a  great  impression  on  me  at  the 
time,  and  from  then  on,  I  adopted  his  motto,  "If 
you're  going  to  get  it,  you'll  get  it." 

It  helped  me  wonderfully.  I  used  it  so  often 
afterwards  that  some  of  my  mates  dubbed  me, 
"If  you're  going  to  get  it,  you'll  get  it." 

After  an  hour's  hard  work,  all  my  nervousness 
left  me,  and  I  was  laughing  and  joking  with  the 
rest. 

At  one  o'clock,  dinner  came  up  in  the  form  of 
a  dixie  of  hot  stew. 

I  looked  for  my  canteen.  It  had  fallen  off 
the  fire  step,  and  was  half  buried  in  the  mud.  The 
man  on  my  left  noticed  this,  and  told  the  Corporal, 
dishing  out  the  rations,  to  put  my  share  in  his 
mess  tin.  Then  he  whispered  to  me,  "Always 
take  care  of  your  mess  tin,  mate." 

I  had  learned  another  maxim  of  the  trenches. 

That  stew  tasted  fine.     I  was  as  hungry  as 


36  Over  the  Top 

a  bear.  We  had  "seconds,"  or  another  helping, 
because  three  of  the  men  had  "gone  West," 
killed  by  the  explosion  of  the  German  trench  mor- 
tar, and  we  ate  their  share,  but  still  I  was  hungry, 
so  I  filled  in  with  bully  beef  and  biscuits.  Then  I 
drained  my  water  bottle.  Later  on  I  learned 
another  maxim  of  the  front  line, — "Go  sparingly 
with  your  water."  The  bully  beef  made  me 
thirsty,  and  by  tea  time  I  was  dying  for  a  drink, 
but  my  pride  would  not  allow  me  to  ask  my 
mates  for  water.  I  was  fast  learning  the  ethics  of 
the  trenches. 

That  night  I  was  put  on  guard  with  an  older 
man.  We  stood  on  the  fire  step  with  our  heads 
over  the  top,  peering  out  into  No  Man's  Land. 
It  was  nervous  work  for  me,  but  the  other  fellow 
seemed  to  take  it  as  part  of  the  night's  routine. 

Then  something  shot  past  my  face.  My  heart 
stopped  beating,  and  I  ducked  my  head  below  the 
parapet.  A  soft  chuckle  from  my  mate  brought 
me  to  my  senses,  and  I  feebly  asked,  "For  God's 
sake,  what  was  that?" 

He  answered,  "Only  a  rat  taking  a  promenade 
along  the  sandbags."  I  felt  very  sheepish. 

About  every  twenty  minutes  the  sentry  in  the 
next  traverse  would  fire  a  star  shell  from  his  flare 


Mud,  Rats,  and  Shells  37 

pistol.  The  "plop"  would  give  me  a  start  of 
fright.  I  never  got  used  to  this  noise  during  my 
service  in  the  trenches. 

I  would  watch  the  arc  described  by  the  star 
shell,  and  then  stare  into  No  Man's  Land  waiting 
for  it  to  burst.  In  its  lurid  light  the  barbed  wire 
and  stakes  would  be  silhouetted  against  its  light 
like  a  latticed  window.  Then  darkness. 

Once,  out  in  front  of  our  wire,  I  heard  a  noise 
and  saw  dark  forms  moving.  My  rifle  was  lying 
across  the  sandbagged  parapet.  I  reached  for  it, 
and  was  taking  aim  to  fire,  when  my  mate  grasped 
my  arm,  and  whispered,  "Don't  fire."  He 
challenged  in  a  low  voice.  The  reply  came  back 
instantly  from  the  dark  forms: 

"Shut  your  blinkin'  mouth,  you  bloomin'  idiot; 
do  you  want  us  to  click  it  from  the  Bodies?" 

Later  we  learned  that  the  word,  "  No  challenging 
or  firing,  wiring  party  out  in  front,"  had  been 
given  to  the  sentry  on  our  right,  but  he  had  failed 
to  pass  it  down  the  trench.  An  officer  had  over- 
heard our  challenge  and  the  reply,  and  immediately 
put  the  offending  sentry  under  arrest.  The  sentry 
clicked  twenty-one  days  on  the  wheel,  that  is,  he 
received  twenty-one  days'  Field  Punishment  No. 
I,  or  "crucifixion,"  as  Tommy  terms  it. 


38  Over  the  Top 

This  consists  of  being  spread-eagled  on  the 
wheel  of  a  limber  two  hours  a  day  for  twenty-one 
days,  regardless  of  the  weather.  During  this 
period,  your  rations  consist  of  bully  beef,  biscuits, 
and  water. 

A  few  months  later  I  met  this  sentry  and  he 
confided  to  me  that  since  being  "crucified,"  he  has 
never  failed  to  pass  the  word  down  the  trench 
when  so  ordered.  In  view  of  the  offence,  the 
above  punishment  was  very  light,  in  that  failing 
to  pass  the  word  down  a  trench  may  mean  the 
loss  of  many  lives,  and  the  spoiling  of  some  im- 
portant enterprise  in  No  Man's  Land. 


CHAPTER  VI 


"BACK  OF  THE  LINE" 


OUR  tour  in  the  front-line  trench  lasted  four 
days,  and  then  we  were  relieved  by  the 

Brigade. 

Going  down  the  communication  trench  we 
were  in  a  merry  mood,  although  we  were  cold  and 
wet,  and  every  bone  in  our  bodies  ached.  It 
makes  a  lot  of  difference  whether  you  are  "going 
in"  or  "going  out." 

At  the  end  of  the  communication  trench,  lim- 
bers were  waiting  on  the  road  for  us.  I  thought 
we  were  going  to  ride  back  to  rest  billets,  but  soon 
found  out  that  the  only  time  an  infantry  man 
rides  is  when  he  is  wounded  and  is  bound  for  the 
base  or  Blighty.  These  limbers  carried  our  re- 
serve ammunition  and  rations.  Our  march  to 
rest  billets  was  thoroughly  enjoyed  by  me.  It 
seemed  as  if  I  were  on  furlough,  and  was  leaving 
behind  everything  that  was  disagreeable  and 

39 


40  Over  the  Top 

horrible.  Every  recruit  feels  this  way  after  being 
relieved  from  the  trenches. 

We  marched  eight  kilos  and  then  halted  in 
front  of  a  French  estaminet.  The  Captain  gave 
the  order  to  turn  out  on  each  side  of  the  road  and 
wait  his  return.  Pretty  soon  he  came  back  and 
told  B  Company  to  occupy  billets  117,  118, 
and  119.  Billet  117  was  an  old  stable  which  had 
previously  been  occupied  by  cows.  About  four 
feet  in  front  of  the  entrance  was  a  huge  manure 
pile,  and  the  odor  from  it  was  anything  but 
pleasant.  Using  my  flashlight  I  stumbled  through 
the  door.  Just  before  entering  I  observed  a  white 
sign  reading:  "Sitting  50,  lying  20,"  but,  at  the 
time,  its  significance  did  not  strike  me.  Next 
morning  I  asked  the  Sergeant-Major  what  it 
meant.  He  nonchalantly  answered: 

"That's  some  of  the  work  of  the  R.  A.  M.  C. 
(Royal  Army  Medical  Corps).  It  simply  means 
that  in  case  of  an  attack,  this  billet  will  accommo- 
date fifty  wounded  who  are  able  to  sit  up  and  take 
notice,  or  twenty  stretcher  cases." 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  I  was  one  of  the 
"20  lying." 

I  soon  hit  the  hay  and  was  fast  asleep,  even 
my  friends  the  "cooties"  failed  to  disturb  me. 


'•Back  of  the  Line"  41 

The  next  morning  at  about  six  o'clock  I  was 
awakened  by  the  Lance-Corporal  of  our  section, 
informing  me  that  I  had  been  detailed  as  mess 
orderly,  and  to  report  to  the  cook  to  give  him  a 
hand.  I  helped  him  make  the  fire,  carry  water 
from  an  old  well,  and  fry  the  bacon.  Lids  of 
dixies  are  used  to  cook  the  bacon  in.  After 
breakfast  was  cooked,  I  carried  a  dixie  of  hot  tea 
and  the  lid  full  of  bacon  to  our  section,  and  told 
the  Corporal  that  breakfast  was  ready.  He 
looked  at  me  in  contempt,  and  then  shouted, 
"Breakfast  up,  come  and  get  it!"  I  immedi- 
ately got  wise  to  the  trench  parlance,  and  never 
again  informed  that  "Breakfast  was  served." 

It  didn't  take  long  for  the  Tommies  to  answer 
this  call.  Half  dressed,  they  lined  up  with  their 
canteens  and  I  dished  out  the  tea.  Each  Tommy 
carried  in  his  hand  a  thick  slice  of  bread  which 
had  been  issued  with  the  rations  the  night  before. 
Then  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  dig  into 
the  bacon  with  their  dirty  fingers.  The  allowance 
was  one  slice  per  man.  The  late  ones  received 
very  small  slices.  As  each  Tommy  got  his  share, 
he  immediately  disappeared  into  the  billet. 
Pretty  soon  about  fifteen  of  them  made  a  rush  to 
the  cookhouse,  each  carrying  a  huge  slice  of  bread. 


42  Over  the  Top 

These  slices  they  dipped  into  the  bacon  grease 
which  was  stewing  over  the  fire.  The  last  man 
invariably  lost  out.  I  was  the  last  man. 

After  breakfast,  our  section  carried  their  equip- 
ment into  a  field  adjoining  the  billet  and  got  busy 
removing  the  trench  mud  therefrom,  because  at 
8.45  A.M.,  they  had  to  fall  in  for  inspection  and 
parade,  and  woe  betide  the  man  who  was  un- 
shaven, or  had  mud  on  his  uniform.  Cleanliness 
is  next  to  Godliness  in  the  British  Army,  and  Old 
Pepper  must  have  been  personally  acquainted 
with  St.  Peter. 

Our  drill  consisted  of  close  order  formation 
which  lasted  until  noon.  During  this  time  we  had 
two  ten-minute  breaks  for  rest,  and  no  sooner 
the  word,  "Fall  out  for  ten  minutes,"  was  given, 
than  each  Tommy  got  out  a  fag  and  lighted  it. 

Fags  are  issued  every  Sunday  morning,  and 
you  generally  get  between  twenty  and  forty. 
The  brand  generally  issued  is  the  "Woodbine." 
Sometimes  we  are  lucky,  and  get  "  Goldflakes, " 
"Players,"  or  "Red  Hussars."  Occasionally  an 
issue  of  "Life  Rays"  comes  along.  Then  the 
older  Tommies  immediately  get  busy  on  the 
recruits,  and  trade  these  for  Woodbines  or  Gold- 
flakes.  A  recruit  only  has  to  be  stuck  once  in 


44  Back  of  the  Line  "  43 

this  manner,  and  then  he  ceases  to  be  a  recruit. 
There  is  a  reason.  Tommy  is  a  great  cigarette 
smoker.  He  smokes  under  all  conditions,  except 
when  unconscious  or  when  he  is  reconnoitering 
in  No  Man's  Land  at  night.  Then,  for  obvious 
reasons,  he  does  not  care  to  have  a  lighted  cigarette 
in  his  mouth. 

Stretcher-bearers  carry  fags  for  wounded  Tom- 
mies. When  a  stretcher-bearer  arrives  alongside 
of  a  Tommy  who  has  been  hit,  the  following  con- 
versation usually  takes  place — Stretcher-bearer, 
"Want  a  fag?  Where  are  you  hit?"  Tommy 
looks  up  and  answers,  "Yes.  In  the  leg." 

After  dismissal  from  parade,  we  returned  to  our 
billets,  and  I  had  to  get  busy  immediately  with 
the  dinner  issue.  Dinner  consisted  of  stew  made 
from  fresh  beef,  a  couple  of  spuds,  bully  beef, 
Maconochie  rations  and  water, — plenty  of  water. 
There  is  great  competition  among  the  men  to 
spear  with  their  forks  the  two  lonely  potatoes. 

After  dinner  I  tried  to  wash  out  the  dixie  with 
cold  water  and  a  rag,  and  learned  another  maxim 
of  the  trenches — "It  can't  be  done."  I  slyly 
watched  one  of  the  older  men  from  another 
section,  and  was  horrified  to  see  him  throw  into 
his  dixie  four  or  five  double  handfuls  of  mud. 


44  Over  the  Top 

Then  he  poured  in  some  water,  and  with  his  hands 
scoured  the  dixie  inside  and  out.  I  thought  he 
was  taking  an  awful  risk.  Supposing  the  cook 
should  have  seen  him!  After  half  an  hour  of 
unsuccessful  efforts,  I  returned  my  dixie  to  the 
cook  shack,  being  careful  to  put  on  the  cover, 
and  returned  to  the  billet.  Pretty  soon  the  cook 
poked  his  head  in  the  door  and  shouted:  "Hey, 
Yank,  come  out  here  and  clean  your  dixie!  I 
protested  that  I  had  wasted  a  half -hour  on  it 
already,  and  had  used  up  my  only  remaining  shirt 
in  the  attempt.  With  a  look  of  disdain,  he 
exclaimed:  "Blow  me,  your  shirt!  Why  in  'ell 
didn't  you  use  mud?" 

Without  a  word  in  reply  I  got  busy  with  the 
mud,  and  soon  my  dixie  was  bright  and  shining. 

Most  of  the  afternoon  was  spent  by  the  men 
writing  letters  home.  I  used  my  spare  time  to 
chop  wood  for  the  cook,  and  go  with  the  Quarter- 
master to  draw  coal.  I  got  back  just  in  time  to 
issue  our  third  meal,  which  consisted  of  hot  tea. 
I  rinsed  out  my  dixie  and  returned  it  to  the  cook- 
house, and  went  back  to  the  billet  with  an  ex- 
hilarated feeling  that  my  day's  labor  was  done. 
I  had  fallen  alscep  on  the  straw  when  once  again 
the  cook  appeared  in  the  door  of  the  billet  with: 


s 


w 


••Back  of  the  Line"  45 

"Blime  me,  you  Yanks  are  lazy.  Who  in  'ell's 
a'goin'  to  draw  the  water  for  the  mornin'  tea? 
Do  you  think  I'm  a'goin'  to?  Well,  I'm  not," 
and  he  left.  I  filled  the  dixie  with  water  from  an 
old  squeaking  well,  and  once  again  lay  down  in  the 
straw. 


CHAPTER  VII 

RATIONS 

JUST  before  dozing  off,  Mr.  Lance-Corporal 
butted  in. 

In  Tommy's  eyes,  a  Lance-Corporal  is  one 
degree  below  a  Private.  In  the  Corporal's  eyes, 
he  is  one  degree  above  a  General. 

He  ordered  me  to  go  with  him  and  help  him  draw 
the  next  day's  rations,  also  told  me  to  take  my 
waterproof. 

Every  evening,  from  each  platoon  or  machine- 
gun  section,  a  Lance-Corporal  and  Private  goes 
to  the  Quartermaster- Sergeant  at  the  Company 
Stores  and  draws  rations  for  the  following  day. 

The  "Quarter,"  as  the  Quartermaster-Sergeant 
is  called,  receives  daily  from  the  Orderly  Room 
(Captain's  Office)  a  slip  showing  the  number  of 
men  entitled  to  rations,  so  there  is  no  chance  of 
putting  anything  over  on  him.  Many  arguments 
take  place  between  the  "Quarter"  and  the  pla- 

46 


Rations  47 

toon  Non-Com,  but  the  former  always  wins  out. 
Tommy  says  the  "Quarter"  got  his  job  because 
he  was  a  burglar  in  civil  life. 

Then  I  spread  the  waterproof  sheet  on  the 
ground,  while  the  Quartermaster's  Batman  dumped 
the  rations  on  it.  The  Corporal  was  smoking  a 
fag.  I  carried  the  rations  back  to  the  billet.  The 
Corporal  was  still  smoking  a  fag.  How  I  envied 
him.  But  when  the  issue  commenced  my  envy 
died,  and  I  realized  that  the  first  requisite  of  a 
non-commissioned  officer  on  active  service  is 
diplomacy.  There  were  nineteen  men  in  our 
section,  and  they  soon  formed  a  semi-circle  around 
us  after  the  Corporal  had  called  out,  "Rations 
up." 

The  Quartermaster-Sergeant  had  given  a  slip 
to  the  Corporal  on  which  was  written  a  list  of  the 
rations.  Sitting  on  the  floor,  using  a  wooden  box 
as  a  table,  the  issue  commenced.  On  the  left  of 
the  Corporal  the  rations  were  piled.  They  con- 
sisted of  the  following : 

Six  loaves  of  fresh  bread,  each  loaf  of  a  different 
size,  perhaps  one  out  of  the  six  being  as  flat  as  a 
pancake,  the  result  of  an  Army  Service  Corps 
man  placing  a  box  of  bully  beef  on  it  during  trans- 
portation. 


48  Over  the  Top 

Three  tins  of  jam,  one  apple,  and  the  other  two 
plum. 

Seventeen  Bermuda  onions,  all  different  sizes. 

A  piece  of  cheese  in  the  shape  of  a  wedge. 

Two  one-pound  tins  of  butter. 

A  handful  of  raisins. . 

A  tin  of  biscuits,  or  as  Tommy  calls  them 
''Jaw-breakers.'* 

A  bottle  of  mustard  pickles. 

The  " bully  beef,"  spuds,  condensed  milk,  fresh 
meat,  bacon,  and  "Maconochie  Rations"  (a  can 
filled  with  meat,  vegetables,  and  greasy  water), 
had  been  turned  over  to  the  Company  Cook  to 
make  stew  for  next  day's  dinner.  He  also  re- 
ceived the  tea,  sugar,  salt,  pepper,  and  flour. 

Scratching  his  head,  the  Corporal  studied  the 
slip  issued  to  him  by  the  Quarter.  Then  in  a  slow, 
mystified  voice  he  read  out,  "No.  I  Section,  19 
men.  Bread,  loaves,  six."  He  looked  puzzled  and 
soliloquized  in  a  musing  voice : 

"Six  loaves,  nineteen  men.  Let's  see,  that's 
three  in  a  loaf  for  fifteen  men, — well  to  make  it 
even,  four  of  you'll  have  to  muck  in  on  one 
loaf." 

The  four  that  got  stuck  made  a  howl,  but  to  no 
avail.  The  bread  was  dished  out.  Pretty  soon 


Rations  49 

from  a  far  corner  of  the  billet,  three  indignant  Tom- 
mies accosted  the  Corporal  with, 

"What  do  you  call  this,  a  loaf  of  bread?  Looks 
more  like  a  sniping  plate.'* 

The  Corporal  answered : 

"Well,  don't  blame  me,  I  didn't  bake  it,  some- 
body's got  to  get  it,  so  shut  up  until  I  dish  out 
these  blinkin'  rations." 

Then  the  Corporal  started  on  the  jam. 

"Jam,  three  tins — apple  one,  plum  two.  Nine- 
teen men,  three  tins.  Six  in  a  tin,  makes  twelve 
men  for  two  tins,  seven  in  the  remaining  tin." 

He  passed  around  the  jam,  and  there  was  an- 
other riot.  Some  didn't  like  apple,  while  others  who 
received  plum  were  partial  to  apple.  After  awhile 
differences  were  adjusted,  and  the  issue  went  on. 

"Bermuda  onions,  seventeen." 

The  Corporal  avoided  a  row  by  saying  that  he 
did  not  want  an  onion,  and  I  said  they  make  your 
breath  smell,  so  guessed  I  would  do  without  one 
too.  The  Corporal  looked  his  gratitude. 

"Cheese,  pounds  two." 

The  Corporal  borrowed  a  jackknife  (corporals 
are  always  borrowing),  and  sliced  the  cheese, — 
each  slicing  bringing  forth  a  pert  remark  from  the 
on-lookers  as  to  the  Corporal's  eyesight. 


50  Over  the  Top 

"Raisins,  ounces,  eight.'* 

By  this  time  the  Corporal's  nerves  had  gone 
West,  and  in  despair,  he  said  that  the  raisins  were 
to  be  turned  over  to  the  cook  for  "duff"  (plum 
pudding).  This  decision  elicited  a  little  "grous- 
ing," but  quiet  was  finally  restored. 

"Biscuits,  tins,  one." 

With  his  borrowed  jackknife,  the  Corporal 
opened  the  tin  of  biscuits,  and  told  everyone  to 
help  themselves, — nobody  responded  to  this  invi- 
tation. Tommy  is  "fed  up"  with  biscuits. 

"Butter,  tins,  two." 

"Nine  in  one,  ten  in  the  other. " 

Another  rumpus. 

"Pickles,  mustard,  bottles,  one." 

Nineteen  names  were  put  in  a  steel  helmet,  the 
last  one  out  winning  the  pickles.  On  the  next 
issue  there  were  only  eighteen  names,  as  the  winner 
is  eliminated  until  every  man  in  the  section  has  won 
a  bottle. 

The  raffle  is  closely  watched,  because  Tommy 
is  suspicious  when  it  comes  to  gambling  with  his 
rations. 

When  the  issue  is  finished,  the  Corporal  sits 
down  and  writes  a  letter  home,  asking  them  if  they 
cannot  get  some  M.P.  (Member  of  Parliament) 


Rations  51 

to  have  him  transferred  to  the  Royal  Flying  Corps 
where  he  won't  have  to  issue  rations. 

At  the  different  French  estaminets  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  at  the  canteens,  Tommy  buys  fresh  eggs, 
milk,  bread,  and  pastry.  Occasionally  when  he  is 
flush,  he  invests  in  a  tin  of  pears  or  apricots.  His 
pay  is  only  a  shilling  a  day,  twenty-four  cents,  or 
a  cent  an  hour.  Just  imagine,  a  cent  an  hour  for 
being  under  fire, — not  much  chance  of  getting  rich 
out  there. 

When  he  goes  into  the  fire  trench  (front  line), 
Tommy's  menu  takes  a  tumble.  He  carries  in  his 
haversack  what  the  government  calls  emergency 
or  iron  rations.  They  are  not  supposed  to  be 
opened  until  Tommy  dies  of  starvation.  They 
consist  of  one  tin  of  bully  beef,  four  biscuits,  a 
little  tin  which  contains  tea,  sugar,  and  Oxo  cubes 
(concentrated  beef  tablets).  These  are  only  to  be 
used  when  the  enemy  establishes  a  curtain  of  shell 
fire  on  the  communication  trenches,  thus  prevent- 
ing the  "carrying  in"  of  rations,  or  when  in  an 
attack,  a  body  of  troops  has  been  cut  off  from  its 
base  of  supplies. 

The  rations  are  brought  up,  at  night,  by  the 
Company  Transport.  This  is  a  section  of  the 
company  in  charge  of  the  Quartermaster- Sergeant, 


52  Over  the  Top 

composed  of  men,  mules,  and  limbers  (two  wheeled 
wagons),  which  supplies  Tommy's  wants  while  in 
the  front  line.  They  are  constantly  under  shell 
fire.  The  rations  are  unloaded  at  the  entrance  to 
the  communication  'trenches  and  are  "carried 
in"  by  men  detailed  for  that  purpose.  The  Quar- 
termaster-Sergeant never  goes  into  the  front-line 
trench.  He  doesn't  have  to,  and  I  have  never 
heard  of  one  volunteering  to  do  so. 

The  Company  Sergeant-Major  sorts  the  rations, 
and  sends  them  in. 

Tommy's  trench  rations  consist  of  all  the  bully 
beef  he  can  eat,  biscuits,  cheese,  tinned  butter 
(sometimes  seventeen  men  to  a  tin),  jam,  or  mar- 
malade, and  occasionally  fresh  bread  (ten  to  a 
loaf).  When  it  is  possible,  he  gets  tea  and  stew. 

When  things  are  quiet,  and  Fritz  is  behaving 
like  a  gentleman,  which  seldom  happens,  Tommy 
has  the  opportunity  of  making  dessert.  This  is 
"trench  pudding."  It  is  made  from  broken  bis- 
cuits, condensed  milk,  jam — a  little  water  added, 
slightly  flavored  with  mud — put  into  a  canteen  and 
cooked  over  a  little  spirit  stove  known  as  "Tom- 
my's cooker. " 

(A  firm  in  Blighty  widely  advertises  these  cookers 
as  a  necessity  for  the  men  in  the  trenches.  Gulli- 


Rations  53 

ble  people  buy  them, — ship  them  to  the  Tommies, 
who,  immediately  upon  receipt  of  same  throw  them 
over  the  parapet.  Sometimes  a  Tommy  falls  for 
the  Ad.,  and  uses  the  cooker  in  a  dugout  to  the 
disgust  and  discomfort  of  the  other  occupants.) 

This  mess  is  stirred  up  in  a  tin  and  allowed  to 
simmer  over  the  flames  from  the  cooker  until  Tom- 
my decides  that  it  has  reached  a  sufficient  (glue- 
like)  consistency.  He  takes  his  bayonet  and  by 
means  of  the  handle  carries  the  mess  up  in  the 
front  trench  to  cool.  After  it  has  cooled  off  he 
tries  to  eat  it.  Generally  one  or  two  Tommies  in 
a  section  have  cast-iron  stomachs  and  the  tin  is 
soon  emptied.  Once  I  tasted  trench  pudding,  but 
only  once. 

In  addition  to  the  regular  ration  issue  Tommy 
uses  another  channel  to  enlarge  his  menu. 

In  the  English  papers  a  "Lonely  Soldier"  col- 
umn is  run.  This  is  for  the  soldiers  at  the  front 
who  are  supposed  to  be  without  friends  or  relatives. 
They  write  to  the  papers  and  their  names  are 
published.  Girls  and  women  in  England  answer 
them,  and  send  out  parcels  of  foodstuffs,  cigarettes, 
candy,  etc.  I  have  known  a  "lonely"  soldier  to 
receive  as  many  as  five  parcels  and  eleven  letters 
in  one  week, 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  LITTLE  WOODEN   CROSS 

A  FTER  remaining  in  rest  billets  for  eight  days, 
•*  we  received  the  unwelcome  tidings  that  the 
next  morning  we  would  "go  in"  to  "take  over." 
At  six  in  the  morning  our  march  started  and,  after 
a  long  march  down  the  dusty  road,  we  again 
arrived  at  reserve  billets. 

I  was  No.  I  in  the  leading  set  of  4*5.  The  man 
on  my  left  was  named  "Pete  Walling,"  a  cheery 
sort  of  fellow.  He  laughed  and  joked  all  the  way 
on  the  march,  buoyed  up  my  drooping  spirits.  I 
could  not  figure  out  anything  attractive  in  again 
occupying  the  front  line,  but  Pete  did  not  seem  to 
mind,  said  it  was  all  in  a  lifetime.  My  left  heel 
was  blistered  from  the  rubbing  of  my  heavy 
marching  boot.  Pete  noticed  that  I  was  limping 
and  offered  to  carry  my  rifle,  but  by  this  time  I  had 
learned  the  ethics  of  the  march  in  the  British  Army 
and  courteously  refused  his  offer. 

54 


The  Little  Wooden  Cross  55 

We  had  gotten  half-way  through  the  communi- 
cation trench,  Pete  in  my  immediate  rear.  He 
had  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  as  men  in  a  com- 
munication trench  have  to  keep  in  touch  with  each 
other.  We  had  just  climbed  over  a  bashed-in 
part  of  the  trench  when  in  our  rear  a  man  tripped 
over  a  loose  signal  wire,  and  let  out  an  oath.  As 
usual,  Pete  rushed  to  his  help.  To  reach  the  fallen 
man,  he  had  to  cross  this  bashed-in  part.  A  bullet 
cracked  in  the  air  and  I  ducked.  Then  a  moan 
from  the  rear.  My  heart  stood  still.  I  went  back 
and  Pete  was  lying  on  the  ground ;  by  the  aid  of  my 
flashlight,  I  saw  that  he  had  his  hand  pressed  to 
his  right  breast.  The  fingers  were  covered  with 
blood.  I  flashed  the  light  on  his  face,  and  in  its 
glow  a  grayish-blue  color  was  stealing  over  his 
countenance.  Pete  looked  up  at  me  and  said: 
"Well,  Yank,  they've  done  me  in.  I  can  feel  my- 
self going  West."  His  voice  was  getting  fainter 
and  I  had  to  kneel  down  to  get  the  words.  Then 
he  gave  me  a  message  to  write  home  to  his  mother 
and  his  sweetheart,  and  I,  like  a  great  big  boob, 
cried  like  a  baby.  I  was  losing  my  first  friend  of 
the  trenches. 

Word  was  passed  to  the  rear  for  a  stretcher. 
He  died  before  it  arrived.  Two  of  us  put  the  body 


56  Over  the  Top 

on  the  stretcher  and  carried  it  to  the  nearest  first- 
aid  post,  where  the  doctor  took  an  official  record 
of  Pete's  name,  number,  rank,  and  regiment  from 
his  identity  disk,  this  to  be  used  in  the  Casualty 
Lists  and  notification  to  his  family. 

We  left  Pete  there,  but  it  broke  our  hearts  to  do 
so.  The  doctor  informed  us  that  we  could  bury 
him  the  next  morning.  That  afternoon,  five  of  the 
boys  of  our  section,  myself  included,  went  to  the 
little  ruined  village  in  the  rear  and  from  the  de- 
serted gardens  of  the  French  chateaux  gathered 
grass  and  flowers.  From  these  we  made  a 
wreath. 

While  the  boys  were  making  this  wreath,  I  sat 
under  a  shot-scarred  apple  tree  and  carved  out  the 
following  verses  on  a  little  wooden  shield  which  we 
nailed  on  Pete's  cross. 


True  to  his  God;  true  to  Britain, 

Doing  his  duty  to  the  last, 
Just  one  more  name  to  be  written 

On  the  Roll  of  Honor  of  heroes  passed- 

Passed  to  their  God,  enshrined  in  glory, 

Entering  life  of  eternal  rest, 
One  more  chapter  in  England's  story 

Of  her  sons  doing  their  best. 


The  Little  Wooden  Cross  57 

Rest,  you  soldier,  mate  so  true, 

Never  forgotten  by  us  below; 
Know  that  we  are  thinking  of  you, 

Ere  to  our  rest  we  are  bidden  to  go. 

Next  morning  the  whole  section  went  over  to  say 
good-bye  to  Pete,  and  laid  him  away  to  rest. 

After  each  one  had  a  look  at  the  face  of  the  dead, 
a  Corporal  of  the  R.  A.  M.  C.  sewed  up  the  remains 
in  a  blanket.  Then  placing  two  heavy  ropes 
across  the  stretcher  (to  be  used  in  lowering  the 
body  into  the  grave),  we  lifted  Pete  onto  the 
stretcher,  and  reverently  covered  him  with  a  large 
Union  Jack,  the  flag  he  had  died  for. 

The  Chaplain  led  the  way,  then  came  the  officers 
of  the  section,  followed  by  two  of  the  men  carrying 
a  wreath.  Immediately  after  came  poor  Pete  on 
the  flag-draped  stretcher,  carried  by  four  soldiers. 
I  was  one  of  the  four.  Behind  the  stretcher,  in 
column  of  fours,  came  the  remainder  of  the 
section. 

To  get  to  the  cemetery,  we  had  to  pass  through 
the  little  shell-destroyed  village,  where  troops 
were  hurrying  to  and  fro. 

As  the  funeral  procession  passed,  these  troops 
came  to  the  "attention,"  and  smartly  saluted  the 
dead. 


58  Over  the  Top 

Poor  Pete  was  receiving  the  only  salute  a  Pri- 
vate is  entitled  to  "somewhere  in  France." 

Now  and  again  a  shell  from  the  German  lines 
would  go  whistling  over  the  village  to  burst  in 
our  artillery  lines  in  the  rear. 

When  we  reached  the  cemetery,  we  halted  in 
front  of  an  open  grave,  and  laid  the  stretcher  beside 
it.  Forming  a  hollow  square  around  the  opening 
of  the  grave,  the  Chaplain  read  the  burial  service. 

German  machine-gun  bullets  were  "cracking" 
in  the  air  above  us,  but  Pete  didn't  mind,  and 
neither  did  we. 

When  the  body  was  lowered  into  the  grave,  the 
flag  having  been  removed,  we  clicked  our  heels 
together,  and  came  to  the  salute. 

I  left  before  the  grave  was  filled  in.  I  could  not 
bear  to  see  the  dirt  thrown  on  the  blanket-covered 
face  of  my  comrade.  On  the  Western  Front  there 
are  no  coffins,  and  you  are  lucky  to  get  a  blanket 
to  protect  you  from  the  wet  and  the  worms. 
Several  of  the  section  stayed  and  decorated  the 
grave  with  white  stones. 

That  night,  in  the  light  of  a  lonely  candle  in 
the  machine-gunner's  dugout  of  the  front-line 
trench,  I  wrote  two  letters.  One  to  Pete's  mother, 
the  other  to  his  sweetheart.  While  doing  this  I 


The  Little  Wooden  Cross  59 

cursed  the  Prussian  war-god  with  all  my  heart, 
and  I  think  that  St.  Peter  noted  same. 

The  machine  gunners  in  the  dugout  were  laugh- 
ing and  joking.  To  them,  Pete  was  unknown. 
Pretty  soon,  in  the  warmth  of  their  merriment, 
my  blues  disappeared.  One  soon  forgets  on  the 
Western  Front. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SUICIDE  ANNEX 

T  WAS  in  my  first  dugout  and  looked  around 
*  curiously.  Over  the  door  of  same  was  a  little 
sign  reading,  "Suicide  Annex."  One  of  the  boys 
told  me  that  this  particular  front  trench  was 
called  "Suicide  Ditch."  Later  on  I  learned  that 
machine  gunners  and  bombers  are  known  as  the 
"Suicide  Club." 

That  dugout  was  muddy.  The  men  slept  in 
mud,  washed  in  mud,  ate  mud,  and  dreamed  mud. 
I  had  never  before  realized  that  so  much  discom- 
fort and  misery  could  be  contained  in  those  three 
little  letters,  MUD.  The  floor  of  the  dugout 
was  an  inch  deep  in  water.  Outside  it  was  raining 
cats  and  dogs,  and  thin  rivulets  were  trickling 
down  the  steps.  From  the  airshaft  immediately 
above  me  came  a  drip,  drip,  drip.  Suicide 
Annex  was  a  hole  eight  feet  wide,  ten  feet  long, 

60 


Suicide  Annex  61 

and  six  feet  high.  It  was  about  twenty  feet  below 
the  fire  trench;  at  least  there  were  twenty  steps 
leading  down  to  it.  These  steps  were  cut  into  the 
earth,  but  at  that  time  were  muddy  and  slippery. 
A  man  had  to  be  very  careful  or  else  he  would 
11  shoot  the  chutes.'*  The  air  was  foul,  and  you 
could  cut  the  smoke  from  Tommy's  fags  with  a 
knife.  It  was  cold.  The  walls  and  roof  were 
supported  with  heavy  square-cut  timbers,  while 
the  entrance  was  strengthened  with  sandbags. 
Nails  had  been  driven  into  these  timbers.  On 
each  nail  hung  a  miscellaneous  assortment  of 
equipment.  The  lighting  arrangements  were 
superb — one  candle  in  a  reflector  made  from  an 
ammunition  tin.  My  teeth  were  chattering  from 
the  cold,  and  the  drip  from  the  airshaft  did  not 
help  matters  much.  While  I  was  sitting  bemoan- 
ing my  fate,  and  wishing  for  the  fireside  at  home, 
the  fellow  next  to  me,  who  was  writing  a  letter, 
looked  up  and  innocently  asked,  "Say,  Yank,  how 
do  you  spell  'conflagration'?" 

I  looked  at  him  in  contempt,  and  answered 
that  I  did  not  know. 

From  the  darkness  in  one  of  the  corners  came 
a  thin,  piping  voice  singing  one  of  the  popular 
trench  ditties  entitled: 


62  Over  the  Top 

"Pack  up  your  Troubles  in  your  Old  Kit  Bag,  and 
Smile,  Smile,  Smile." 

Every  now  and  then   the  singer  would  stop  to 
Cough,  Cough,  Cough, 

but  it  was  a  good  illustration  of  Tommy  s  cheerful- 
ness under  such  conditions. 

A  machine-gun  officer  entered  the  dugout  and 
gave  me  a  hard  look.  I  sneaked  past  him, 
sliding,  and  slipping  and  reached  my  section  of 
the  front-line  trench  where  I  was  greeted  by  the 
Sergeant,  who  asked  me,  "Where  in  'ell  'ave  you 
been?" 

I  made  no  answer,  but  sat  on  the  muddy  fire 
step,  shivering  with  the  cold  and  with  the  rain 
beating  in  my  face.  About  half  an  hour  later 
I  teamed  up  with  another  fellow  and  went  on 
guard  with  my  head  sticking  over  the  top.  At 
ten  o'clock  I  was  relieved  and  resumed  my  sitting 
position  on  the  fire  step.  The  rain  suddenly 
stopped  and  we  all  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  We 
prayed  for  the  morning  and  the  rum  issue. 


CHAPTER  X 


"THE  DAY'S  WORK" 


T  WAS  fast  learning  that  there  is  a  regular  routine 
*  about  the  work  of  the  trenches,  although  it  is 
badly  upset  at  times  by  the  Germans. 

The  real  work  in  the  fire  trench  commences  at 
sundown.  Tommy  is  like  a  burglar,  he  works  at 
night. 

Just  as  it  begins  to  get  dark  the  word  "stand 
to"  is  passed  from  traverse  to  traverse,  and  the 
men  get  busy.  The  first  relief,  consisting  of  two 
men  to  a  traverse,  mount  the  fire  step,  one  man 
looking  over  the  top,  while  the  other  sits  at  his 
feet,  ready  to  carry  messages  or  to  inform  the 
platoon  officer  of  any  report  made  by  the  sentry 
as  to  his  observations  in  No  Man's  Land.  The 
sentry  is  not  allowed  to  relax  his  watch  for  a 
second.  If  he  is  questioned  from  the  trench  or 
asked  his  orders,  he  replies  without  turning  around 
or  taking  his  eyes  from  the  expanse  of  dirt  in 

63 


64  Over  the  Top 

front  of  him.  The  remainder  of  the  occupants  of 
his  traverse  either  sit  on  the  fire  step,  with  bayonets 
fixed,  ready  for  any  emergency,  or  if  lucky,  and 
a  dugout  happens  to  be  in  the  near  vicinity  of  the 
traverse,  and  if  the  night  is  quiet,  they  are  per- 
mitted to  go  to  same  and  try  and  snatch  a  few 
winks  of  sleep.  Little  sleeping  is  done;  generally 
the  men  sit  around,  smoking  fags  and  seeing  who 
can  tell  the  biggest  lie.  Some  of  them  perhaps, 
with  their  feet  in  water,  would  write  home  sym- 
pathizing with  the  "governor"  because  he  was 
laid  up  with  a  cold,  contracted  by  getting  his  feet 
wet  on  his  way  to  work  in  Woolwich  Arsenal. 
If  a  man  should  manage  to  doze  off,  likely  as  not 
he  would  wake  with  a  start  as  the  clammy,  cold 
feet  of  a  rat  passed  over  his  face,  or  the  next 
relief  stepped  on  his  stomach  while  stumbling 
on  their  way  to  relieve  the  sentries  in  the  trench. 
Just  try  to  sleep  with  a  belt  full  of  ammunition 
around  you,  your  rifle  bolt  biting  into  your  ribs, 
entrenching  tool  handle  sticking  into  the  small  of 
your  back,  with  a  tin  hat  for  a  pillow;  and  feeling 
very  damp  and  cold,  with  "  cooties  "  boring  for  oil 
in  your  arm  pits,  the  air  foul  from  the  stench  of 
grimy  human  bodies  and  smoke  from  a  juicy  pipe 
being  whirled  into  your  nostrils,  then  you  will  not 


•The  Day's  Work"  65 

wonder  why  Tommy  occasionally  takes  a  turn  in 
the  trench  for  a  rest. 

While  in  a  front-line  trench  orders  forbid  Tommy 
from  removing  his  boots,  puttees,  clothing,  or 
equipment.  The  "cooties"  take  advantage  of  this 
order  and  mobilize  their  forces,  and  Tommy 
swears  vengeance  on  them  and  mutters  to  himself, 
"just  wait  until  I  hit  rest  billets  and  am  able  to 
get  my  own  back." 

Just  before  daylight  the  men  "turn  to"  and 
tumble  out  of  the  dugouts,  man  the  fire  step  until 
it  gets  light,  or  the  welcome  order  "stand  down" 
is  given.  Sometimes  before  "stand  down"  is 
ordered,  the  command  "five  rounds  rapid"  is 
passed  along  the  trench.  This  means  that  each 
man  must  rest  his  rifle  on  the  top  and  fire  as 
rapidly  as  possible  five  shots  aimed  toward  the 
German  trenches,  and  then  duck  (with  the 
emphasis  on  the  "duck").  There  is  a  great 
rivalry  between  the  opposing  forces  to  get  their 
rapid  fire  off  first,  because  the  early  bird,  in  this 
instance,  catches  the  worm, — sort  of  gets  the 
jump  on  the  other  fellow,  catching  him  unawares. 

We  had  a  Sergeant  in  our  battalion  named 
Warren.  He  was  on  duty  with  his  platoon  in  the 
fire  trench  one  afternoon  when  orders  came  up 


66  Over  the  Top 

from  the  rear  that  he  had  been  granted  seven 
days'  leave  for  Blighty,  and  would  be  relieved  at 
five  o'clock  to  proceed  to  England. 

He  was  tickled  to  death  at  these  welcome  tidings 
and  regaled  his  more  or  less  envious  mates  beside 
him  on  the  fire  step  with  the  good  times  in  store 
for  him.  He  figured  it  out  that  in  two  days' 
time  he  would  arrive  at  Waterloo  Station,  London, 
and  then — seven  days'  bliss ! 

At  about  five  minutes  to  five  he  started  to 
fidget  with  his  rifle,  and  then  suddenly  springing 
up  on  the  fire  step  with  a  muttered,  'Til  send  over 
a  couple  of  souvenirs  to  Fritz,  so  that  he'll  miss 
me  when  I  leave, "  he  stuck  his  rifle  over  the  top 
and  fired  two  shots,  when  "crack"  went  a  bullet 
and  he  tumbled  off  the  step,  fell  into  the  mud  at 
the  bottom  of  the  trench,  and  lay  still  in  a  huddled 
heap  with  a  bullet  hole  in  his  forehead. 

At  about  the  time  he  expected  to  arrive  at 
Waterloo  Station  he  was  laid  to  rest  in  a  little  ceme- 
tery behind  the  lines.  He  had  gone  to  Blighty. 

In  the  trenches  one  can  never  tell, — it  is  not 
safe  to  plan  very  far  ahead. 

After  "stand  down"  the  men  sit  on  the  fire 
step  or  repair  to  their  respective  dugouts  and  wait 
for  the  "rum  issue"  to  materialize.  Immediately 


«•  The  Day's  Work  "  67 

following  the  rum,  comes  breakfast,  brought  up 
from  the  rear.  Sleeping  is  then  in  order  unless 
some  special  work  turns  up. 

Around  12.30  dinner  shows  up.  When  this  is 
eaten  the  men  try  to  amuse  themselves  until 
"tea"  appears  at  about  four  o'clock,  then  "stand 
to"  and  they  carry  on  as  before. 

While  in  rest  billets  Tommy  gets  up  about  six 
in  the  morning,  washes  up,  answers  roll  call,  is 
inspected  by  his  platoon  officer,  and  has  breakfast. 
At  8.45  he  parades  (drills)  with  his  company  or 
goes  on  fatigue  according  to  the  orders  which  have 
been  read  out  by  the  Orderly  Sergeant  the  night 
previous. 

Between  11.30  and  noon  he  is  dismissed,  has 
his  dinner,  and  is  "on  his  own"  for  the  remainder 
of  the  day,  unless  he  has  clicked  for  a  digging  or 
working  party,  and  so  it  goes  on  from  day  to  day, 
always  "looping  the  loop"  and  looking  forward 
to  Peace  and  Blighty. 

Sometimes,  while  engaged  in  a  "cootie"  hunt 
you  think.  Strange  to  say,  but  it  is  a  fact,  while 
Tommy  is  searching  his  shirt,  serious  thoughts 
come  to  him.  Many  a  time,  when  performing 
this  operation,  I  have  tried  to  figure  out  the  out- 
come of  the  war  and  what  will  happen  to  me. 


68  Over  the  Top 

My  thoughts  generally  ran  in  this  channel : 
Will  I  emerge  safely  from  the  next  attack?  If 
I  do,  will  I  skin  through  the  following  one,  and 
so  on?  While  your  mind  is  wandering  into  the 
future  it  is  likely  to  be  rudely  brought  to  earth 
by  a  Tommy  interrupting  with,  "What's  good  for 
rheumatism?" 

Then  you  have  something  else  to  think  of. 
Will  you  come  out  of  this  war  crippled  and  tied 
into  knots  with  rheumatism,  caused  by  the  wet 
and  mud  of  trenches  and  dugouts?  You  give  it 
up  as  a  bad  job  and  generally  saunter  over  to  the 
nearest  estaminet  to  drown  your  moody  fore- 
bodings in  a  glass  of  sickening  French  beer,  or  to 
try  your  luck  at  the  always  present  game  of 
"House."  You  can  hear  the  sing-song  voice  of  a 
Tommy  droning  out  the  numbers  as  he  extracts 
the  little  squares  of  cardboard  from  the  bag 
between  his  feet. 


CHAPTER  XI 

OVER  THE  TOP 

my  second  trip  to  the  trenches  our  officer  was 
making  his  rounds  of  inspection,  and  we  re- 
ceived the  cheerful  news  that  at  four  in  the  morning 
we  were  to  go  over  the  top  and  take  the  German 
front-line  trench.  My  heart  turned  to  lead.  Then 
the  officer  carried  on  with  his  instructions.  To  the 
best  of  my  memory  I  recall  them  as  follows:  "At 
eleven  a  wiring  party  will  go  out  in  front  and  cut 
lanes  through  our  barbed  wire  for  the  passage  of 
troops  in  the  morning.  At  two  o'clock  our  artil- 
lery will  open  up  with  an  intense  bombardment 
which  will  last  until  four.  Upon  the  lifting  of  the 
barrage,  the  first  of  the  three  waves  will  go  over. " 
Then  he  left.  Some  of  the  Tommies,  first  getting 
permission  from  the  Sergeant,  went  into  the 
machine-gunners'  dugout,  and  wrote  letters  home, 
saying  that  in  the  morning,  they  were  going  over 
the  top,  and  also  that  if  the  letters  reached 

69 


70  Over  the  Top 

their  destination  it  would  mean  that  the  writer 
had  been  killed. 

These  letters  were  turned  over  to  the  captain 
with  instructions  to  mail  same  in  the  event  of  the 
writer's  being  killed.  Some  of  the  men  made  out 
their  wills  in  their  pay  book,  under  the  caption, 
"will  and  last  testament." 

Then  the  nerve-racking  wait  commenced.  Every 
now  and  then  I  would  glance  at  the  dial  of 
my  wrist-watch  and  was  surprised  to  see  how  fast 
the  minutes  passed  by.  About  five  minutes  to 
two  I  got  nervous  waiting  for  our  guns  to  open  up. 
I  could  not  take  my  eyes  from  my  watch.  I 
crouched  against  the  parapet  and  strained  my 
muscles  in  a  death-like  grip  upon  my  rifle.  As 
the  hands  on  my  watch  showed  two  o'clock,  a 
blinding  red  flare  lighted  up  the  sky  in  our  rear, 
then  thunder,  intermixed  with  a  sharp,  whistling 
sound  in  the  air  over  our  heads.  The  shells  from 
our  guns  were  speeding  on  their  way  toward  the 
German  lines.  With  one  accord  the  men  sprang 
up  on  the  fire  step  and  looked  over  the  top  in 
the  direction  of  the  German  trenches.  A  line  of 
bursting  shells  lighted  up  No  Man's  Land.  The 
din  was  terrific  and  the  ground  trembled.  Then, 
high  above  our  heads  we  could  hear  a  sighing 


Over  the  Top  71 

moan.  Our  big  boys  behind  the  line  had  opened 
up  and  9.2 's  and  1 5-inch  shells  commenced  drop- 
ping into  the  German  lines.  The  flash  of  the 
guns  behind  the  lines,  the  scream  of  the  shells 
through  the  air,  and  the  flare  of  them,  burst- 
ing, was  a  spectacle  that  put  Pain's  greatest  dis- 
play into  the  shade.  The  constant  pup.  pup,  of 
German  machine  guns  and  an  occasional  rattle  of 
rifle  firing  gave  me  the  impression  of  a  huge  audi- 
ence applauding  the  work  of  the  batteries. 

Our  eighteen -pounders  were  destroying  the 
German  barbed  wire,  while  the  heavier  stuff  was 
demolishing  their  trenches  and  bashing  in  dugouts 
or  funk-holes. 

Then  Fritz  got  busy. 

Their  shells  went  screaming  overhead,  aimed 
in  the  direction  of  the  flares  from  our  batteries. 
Trench  mortars  started  dropping  "Minnies"  in 
our  front  line.  We  clicked  several  casualties. 
Then  they  suddenly  ceased.  Our  artillery  had 
taped  or  silenced  them. 

During  the  bombardment  you  could  almost  read 
a  newspaper  in  our  trench.  Sometimes  in  the  flare 
of  a  shell-burst  a  man's  body  would  be  silhouetted 
against  the  parados  of  the  trench  and  it  appeared 
like  a  huge  monster.  You  could  hardly  hear  your- 


72  Over  the  Top 

self  think.  When  an  order  was  to  be  passed  down 
the  trench,  you  had  to  yell  it,  using  your  hands  as  a 
funnel  into  the  ear  of  the  man  sitting  next  to 
you  on  the  fire  step.  In  about  twenty  minutes  a 
generous  rum  issue  was  doled  out.  After  drinking 
the  rum,  which  tasted  like  varnish  and  sent  a 
shudder  through  your  frame,  you  wondered  why 
they  made  you  wait  until  the  lifting  of  the  barrage 
before  going  over.  At  ten  minutes  to  four,  word 
was  passed  down,  "Ten  minutes  to  go!"  Ten 
minutes  to  live!  We  were  shivering  all  over. 
My  legs  felt  as  if  they  were  asleep.  Then  word 
was  passed  down:  "First  wave  get  on  and  near  the 
scaling  ladders." 

These  were  small  wooden  ladders  which  we 
had  placed  against  the  parapet  to  enable  us  to  go 
over  the  top  on  the  lifting  of  the  barrage.  ' '  Lad- 
ders of  Death'*  we  called  them,  and  veritably  they 
were. 

Before  a  charge  Tommy  is  the  politest  of  men. 
There  is  never  any  pushing  or  crowding  to  be  first 
up  these  ladders.  We  crouched  around  the  base 
of  the  ladders  waiting  for  the  word  to  go  over. 
I  was  sick  and  faint,  and  was  puffing  away  at  an 
unlighted  fag.  Then  came  the  word,  "Three  min- 
utes to  go;  upon  the  lifting  of  the  barrage  and  on 


Over  the  Top  73 

the  blast  of  the  whistles,  '  Over  the  Top  with  the 
Best  o'  Luck  and  Give  them  Hell.*  "  The  famous 
phrase  of  the  Western  Front.  The  Jonah  phrase 
of  the  Western  Front.  To  Tommy  it  means  if  you 
are  lucky  enough  to  come  back,  you  will  be  minus 
an  arm  or  a  leg.  Tommy  hates  to  be  wished  the 
best  of  luck ;  so,  when  peace  is  declared,  if  it  ever  is, 
and  you  meet  a  Tommy  on  the  street,  just  wish 
him  the  best  of  luck  and  duck  the  brick  that 
follows. 

I  glanced  again  at  my  wrist-watch.  We  all 
wore  them  and  you  could  hardly  call  us  "sissies" 
for  doing  so.  It  was  a  minute  to  four.  I  could 
see  the  hand  move  to  the  twelve,  then  a  dead 
silence.  It  hurt.  Everyone  looked  up  to  see 
what  had  happened,  but  not  for  long.  Sharp 
whistle  blasts  rang  out  along  the  trench,  and  with 
a  cheer  the  men  scrambled  up  the  ladders.  The 
bullets  were  cracking  overhead,  and  occasionally 
a  machine  gun  would  rip  and  tear  the  top  of  the 
sand  bag  parapet.  How  I  got  up  that  ladder  I 
will  never  know.  The  first  ten  feet  out  in  front 
was  agony.  Then  we  passed  through  the  lanes 
in  our  barbed  wire.  I  knew  I  was  running,  but 
could  feel  no  motion  below  the  waist.  Patches 
on  the  ground  seemed  to  float  to  the  rear  as  if  I 


74  Over  the  Top 

were  on  a  treadmill  and  scenery  was  rushing  past 
me.  The  Germans  had  put  a  barrage  of  shrapnel 
across  No  Man's  Land,  and  you  could  hear  the 
pieces  slap  the  ground  about  you. 

After  I  had  passed  our  barbed  wire  and  gotten 
into  No  Man's  Land,  a  Tommy  about  fifteen 
feet  to  my  right  front  turned  around  and  looking 
in  my  direction,  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and 
yelled  something  which  I  could  not  make  out  on 
account  of  the  noise  from  the  bursting  shells. 
Then  he  coughed,  stumbled,  pitched  forward,  and 
lay  still.  His  body  seemed  to  float  to  the  rear  of 
me.  I  could  hear  sharp  cracks  in  the  air  about  me. 
These  were  caused  by  passing  rifle  bullets.  Fre- 
quently, to  my  right  and  left,  little  spurts  of  dirt 
would  rise  into  the  air,  and  a  ricochet  bullet  would 
whine  on  its  way.  If  a  Tommy  should  see  one  of 
these  little  spurts  in  front  of  him,  he  would  tell  the 
nurse  about  it  later.  The  crossing  of  No  Man's 
Land  remains  a  blank  to  me. 

Men  on  my  right  and  left  would  stumble  and  fall. 
Some  would  try  to  get  up,  while  others  remained 
huddled  and  motionless.  Then  smashed-up 
barbed  wire  came  into  view  and  seemed  carried  on  a 
tide  to  the  rear.  Suddenly,  in  front  of  me  loomed 
a  bashed-in  trench  about  four  feet  wide.  Queer- 


Over  the  Top  75 

looking  forms  like  mud  turtles  were  scrambling  up 
its  wall.  One  of  these  forms  seemed  to  slip  and 
then  rolled  to  the  bottom  of  the  trench.  I  leaped 
across  this  intervening  space.  The  man  to  my  left 
seemed  to  pause  in  mid-air,  then  pitched  head 
down  into  the  German  trench.  I  laughed  out  loud 
in  my  delirium.  Upon  alighting  on  the  other  side 
of  the  trench  I  came  to  with  a  sudden  jolt.  Right 
in  front  of  me  loomed  a  giant  form  with  a  rifle 
which  looked  about  ten  feet  long,  on  the  end  of 
which  seemed  seven  bayonets.  These  flashed  m 
the  air  in  front  of  me.  Then  through  my  mind 
flashed  the  admonition  of  our  bayonet  instructor 
back  in  Blighty.  He  had  said,  "  whenever  you  get 
in  a  charge  and  run  your  bayonet  up  to  the  hilt 
into  a  German,  the  Fritz  will  fall.  Perhaps  your 
rifle  will  be  wrenched  from  your  grasp.  Do 
not  waste  time,  if  the  bayonet  is  fouled  in  his 
equipment,  by  putting  your  foot  on  his  stomach 
and  tugging  at  the  rifle  to  extricate  the  bayonet. 
Simply  press  the  trigger  and  the  bullet  will  free  it.  " 
In  my  present  situation  this  was  fine  logic,  but  for 
the  life  of  me  I  could  not  remember  how  he  had  told 
me  to  get  my  bayonet  into  the  German.  To  me, 
this  was  the  paramount  issue.  I  closed  my  eyes, 
and  lunged  forward.  My  rifle  was  torn  from  my 


76  Over  the  Top 

hands.  I  must  have  gotten  the  German  because 
he  had  disappeared.  About  twenty  feet  to  my  left 
front  was  a  huge  Prussian  nearly  six  feet  four  inches 
in  height,  a  fine  specimen  of  physical  manhood. 
The  bayonet  from  his  rifle  was  missing,  but  he 
clutched  the  barrel  in  both  hands  and  was  swinging 
the  butt  around  his  head.  I  could  almost  hear  the 
swish  of  the  butt  passing  through  the  air.  Three 
little  Tommies  were  engaged  with  him.  They 
looked  like  pigmies  alongside  of  the  Prussian.  The 
Tommy  on  the  left  was  gradually  circling  to  the 
rear  of  his  opponent.  It  was  a  funny  sight  to  see 
them  duck  the  swinging  butt  and  try  to  jab  him  at 
the  same  time.  The  Tommy  nearest  me  received 
the  butt  of  the  German's  rifle  in  a  smashing  blow 
below  the  right  temple.  It  smashed  his  head  like 
an  eggshell.  He  pitched  forward  on  his  side  and  a 
convulsive  shudder  ran  through  his  body.  Mean- 
while, the  other  Tommy  had  gained  the  rear  of  the 
Prussian.  Suddenly  about  four  inches  of  bayonet 
protruded  from  the  throat  of  the  Prussian  soldier, 
who  staggered  forward  and  fell.  I  will  never 
forget  the  look  of  blank  astonishment  that  came 
over  his  face. 

Then  something  hit  me  in  the  left  shoulder 
and  my  left  side  went  numb.     It  felt  as  if  a  hot 


Over  the  Top  77 

poker  was  being  driven  through  me.  I  felt  no 
pain — just  a  sort  of  nervous  shock.  A  bayonet 
had  pierced  me  from  the  rear.  I  fell  backward  on 
the  ground,  but  was  not  unconscious,  because  I 
could  see  dim  objects  moving  around  me.  Then  a 
flash  of  light  in  front  of  my  eyes  and  unconscious- 
ness. Something  had  hit  me  on  the  head.  I  have 
never  found  out  what  it  was. 

I  dreamed  I  was  being  tossed  about  in  an  open 
boat  on  a  heaving  sea  and  opened  my  eyes.  The 
moon  was  shining.  I  was  on  a  stretcher  being 
carried  down  one  of  our  communication  trenches. 
At  the  advanced  first-aid  post  my  wounds  were 
dressed,  and  then  I  was  put  into  an  ambulance 
and  sent  to  one  of  the  base  hospitals.  The  wounds 
in  my  shoulder  and  head  were  not  serious  and  in 
six  weeks  I  had  rejoined  my  company  for  service  in 
the  front  line. 


CHAPTER  XII 

BOMBING 

TPHE  boys  in  the  section  welcomed  me  back,  but 
*  there  were  many  strange  faces.  Several  of 
our  men  had  gone  West  in  that  charge,  and  were 
lying  "somewhere  in  France"  with  a  little  wooden 
cross  at  their  heads.  We  were  in  rest  billets. 
The  next  day,  our  Captain  asked  for  volunteers 
for  Bombers'  School.  I  gave  my  name  and  was 
accepted.  I  had  joined  the  Suicide  Club,  and 
my  troubles  commenced.  Thirty- two  men  of  the 

battalion,  including  myself,  were  sent  to  L , 

where  we  went  through  a  course  in  bombing.  Here 
we  were  instructed  in  the  uses,  methods  of  throw- 
ing, and  manufacture  of  various  kinds  of  hand 
grenades,  from  the  old  "jam  tin,"  now  obsolete,  to 
the  present  Mills  bomb,  the  standard  of  the 
British  Army. 

It  all  depends  where  you  are  as  to  what  you  are 
called.     In  France  they  call  you  a  "bomber"  and 

78 


Bombing  79 

give  you  medals,  while  in  neutral  countries  they 
call  you  an  anarchist  and  give  you  "life." 

From  the  very  start  the  Germans  were  well 
equipped  with  effective  bombs  and  trained  bomb- 
throwers,  but  the  English  Army  was  as  little  pre- 
pared in  this  important  department  of  fighting  as 
in  many  others.  At  bombing  school  an  old  Ser- 
geant of  the  Grenadier  Guards,  whom  I  had  the 
good  fortune  to  meet,  told  me  of  the  discourage- 
ments this  branch  of  the  service  suffered  before 
they  could  meet  the  Germans  on  an  equal  foot- 
ing. (Pacifists  and  small  army  people  in  the  U.  S. 
please  read  with  care.}  The  first  English  Expedi- 
tionary Force  had  no  bombs  at  all  but  had  clicked 
a  lot  of  casualties  from  those  thrown  by  the 
Boches.  One  bright  morning  someone  higher  up 
had  an  idea  and  issued  an  order  detailing  two  men 
from  each  platoon  to  go  to  bombing  school  to  learn 
the  duties  of  a  bomber  and  how  to  manufacture 
bombs.  Non-commissioned  officers  were  generally 
selected  for  this  course.  After  about  two  weeks  at 
school  they  returned  to  their  units  in  rest  billets  or 
in  the  fire  trench  as  the  case  might  be  and  got  busy 
teaching  their  platoons  how  to  make  "jam  tins. " 

Previously  an  order  had  been  issued  for  all  ranks 
to  save  empty  jam  tins  for  the  manufacture  of 


8o  Over  the  Top 

bombs.  A  Professor  of  Bombing  would  sit  on  the 
fire  step  in  the  front  trench  with  the  remainder  of 
his  section  crowding  around  to  see  him  work. 

On  his  left  would  be  a  pile  of  empty  and  rusty 
jam  tins,  while  beside  him  on  the  fire  step  would  be 
a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  material  used  in  the 
manufacture  of  the  "jam  tins." 

Tommy  would  stoop  down,  get  an  empty  "jam 
tin, "  take  a  handful  of  clayey  mud  from  the  para- 
pet, and  line  the  inside  of  the  tin  with  this  sub- 
stance. Then  he  would  reach  over,  pick  up  his 
detonator  and  explosive,  and  insert  them  in  the 
tin,  the  fuse  protruding.  On  the  fire  step  would 
be  a  pile  of  fragments  of  shell,  shrapnel  balls,  bits 
of  iron,  nails,  etc. — anything  that  was  hard  enough 
to  send  over  to  Fritz ;  he  would  scoop  up  a  handful 
of  this  junk  and  put  it  in  the  bomb.  Perhaps  one 
of  the  platoon  would  ask  him  what  he  did  this  for, 
and  he  would  explain  that  when  the  bomb  exploded 
these  bits  would  fly  about  and  kill  or  wound  any 
German  hit  by  same;  the  questioner  would  immedi- 
ately pull  a  button  off  his  tunic  and  hand  it  to  the 
bomb-maker  with,  "Well,  blime  me,  send  this 
over  as  a  souvenir, "  or  another  Tommy  would 
volunteer  an  old  rusty  and  broken  jackknife ;  both 
would  be  accepted  and  inserted. 


Bombing  81 

Then  the  Professor  would  take  another  handful 
of  mud  and  fill  the  tin,  after  which  he  would  punch 
a  hole  in  the  lid  of  the  tin  and  put  it  over  the  top  of 
the  bomb,  the  fuse  sticking  out.  Then  perhaps  he 
would  tightly  wrap  wire  around  the  outside  of  the 
tin  and  the  bomb  was  ready  to  send  over  to  Fritz 
with  Tommy's  compliments. 

A  piece  of  wood  about  four  inches  long  and  two 
inches  wide  had  been  issued.  This  was  to  be 
strapped  on  the  left  forearm  by  means  of  two 
leather  straps  and  was  like  the  side  of  a  match  box; 
it  was  called  a  "striker."  There  was  a  tip  like 
the  head  of  a  match  on  the  fuse  of  the  bomb.  To 
ignite  the  fuse,  you  had  to  rub  it  on  the  "striker, " 
just  the  same  as  striking  a  match.  The  fuse  was 
timed  to  five  seconds  or  longer.  Some  of  the  fuses 
issued  in  those  days  would  burn  down  in  a  second 
or  two,  while  others  would  "sizz"  for  a  week  before 
exploding.  Back  in  Blighty  the  munition  workers 
weren't  quite  up  to  snuff,  the  way  they  are  now.  If 
the  fuse  took  a  notion  to  burn  too  quickly,  they 
generally  buried  the  bombmaker  next  day.  So 
making  bombs  could  not  be  called  a  "cushy"  or 
safe  job. 

After  making  several  bombs,  the  Professor  in- 
structs the  platoon  in  throwing  them.  He  takes 


82  Over  the  Top 

a  "jam  tin"  from  the  fire  step,  trembling  a  little, 
because  it  is  nervous  work,  especially  when  new  at 
it,  lights  the  fuse  on  his  striker.  The  fuse  begins  to 
"sizz"  and  sputter  and  a  spiral  of  smoke,  like  that 
from  a  smouldering  fag,  rises  from  it.  The  platoon 
splits  in  two  and  ducks  around  the  traverse  near- 
est to  them.  They  don't  like  the  looks  and  sound 
of  the  burning  fuse.  When  that  fuse  begins  to 
smoke  and  "sizz"  you  want  to  say  good-bye  to  it  as 
soon  as  possible,  so  Tommy  with  all  his  might 
chucks  it  over  the  top  and  crouches  against  the 
parapet,  waiting  for  the  explosion. 

Lots  of  times  in  bombing,  the  "jam  tin"  would 
be  picked  up  by  the  Germans,  before  it  exploded 
and  thrown  back  at  Tommy  with  dire  results. 

After  a  lot  of  men  went  West  in  this  manner,  an 
order  was  issued,  reading  something  like  this : 

"To  all  ranks  in  the  British  Army — after  ignit- 
ing the  fuse  and  before  throwing  the  jam  tin  bomb, 
count  slowly  one!  two!  three!" 

This  in  order  to  give  the  fuse  time  enough  to 
burn  down,  so  that  the  bomb  would  explode  before 
the  Germans  could  throw  it  back. 

Tommy  read  the  order — he  reads  them  all,  but 
after  he  ignited  the  fuse  and  it  began  to  smoke,— 
orders  were  forgotten,  and  away  she  went  in 


Bombing  83 

record  time  and  back  she  came  to  the  further 
discomfort  of  the  thrower. 

Then  another  order  was  issued  to  count,  "one 
hundred!  two  hundred!  three  hundred!'*  but 
Tommy  didn't  care  if  the  order  read  to  count  up  to 
a  thousand  by  quarters  he  was  going  to  get  rid  of 
that  "jam  tin,"  because  from  experience  he  had 
learned  not  to  trust  it. 

When  the  powers  that  be  realized  that  they  could 
not  change  Tommy,  they  decided  to  change  the  type 
of  bomb  and  did  so — substituting  the  "hair  brush," 
the  "  cricket-ball,"  and  later  the  Mills  bomb. 

The  standard  bomb  used  in  the  British  Army  is 
the  "Mills."  It  is  about  the  shape  and  size  of 
a  large  lemon.  Although  not  actually  a  lemon, 
Fritz  insists  that  it  is;  perhaps  he  judges  it  by  the 
havoc  caused  by  its  explosion.  The  Mills  bomb 
is  made  of  steel,  the  outside  of  which  is  corrugated 
into  forty-eight  small  squares  which,  upon  the 
explosion  of  the  bomb,  scatter  in  a  wide  area, 
wounding  or  killing  any  Fritz  who  is  unfortunate 
enough  to  be  hit  by  one  of  the  flying  fragments. 

Although  a  very  destructive  and  efficient  bomb, 
the  "Mills"  has  the  confidence  of  the  thrower,  in 
that  he  knows  it  will  not  explode  until  released 
from  his  grip. 


84  Over  the  Top 

It  is  a  mechanical  device,  with  a  lever,  fitted 
into  a  slot  at  the  top,  which  extends  half  way 
around  the  circumference  and  is  held  in  place  at 
the  bottom  by  a  fixing  pin.  In  this  pin  there  is  a 
small  metal  ring,  for  the  purpose  of  extracting  the 
pin  when  ready  to  throw. 

You  do  not  throw  a  bomb  the  way  a  baseball  is 
thrown,  because,  when  in  a  narrow  trench,  your 
hand  is  liable  to  strike  against  the  parados,  traverse, 
or  parapet,  and  then  down  goes  the  bomb,  and,  in 
a  couple  of  seconds  or  so,  up  goes  Tommy. 

In  throwing,  the  bomb  and  lever  are  grasped  in 
the  right  hand,  the  left  foot  is  advanced,  knee 
stiff,  about  once  and  a  half  its  length  to  the  front, 
while  the  right  leg,  knee  bent,  is  carried  slightly  to 
the  right.  The  left  arm  is  extended  at  an  angle  of 
45°,  pointing  in  the  direction  the  bomb  is  to  be 
thrown.  This  position  is  similar  to  that  of  shot- 
putting,  only  that  the  right  arm  is  extended 
downward.  Then  you  hurl  the  bomb  from  you 
with  an  overhead  bowling  motion,  the  same  as  in 
cricket,  throwing  it  fairly  high  in  the  air,  this  in 
order  to  give  the  fuse  a  chance  to  burn  down  so 
that  when  the  bomb  lands,  it  immediately  explodes 
and  gives  the  Germans  no  time  to  scamper  out  of 
its  range  or  to  return  it. 


Bombing  85 

As  the  bomb  leaves  your  hand,  the  lever,  by 
means  of  a  spring,  is  projected  into  the  air  and  falls 
harmlessly  to  the  ground  a  few  feet  in  front  of  the 
bomber. 

When  the  lever  flies  off,  it  releases  a  strong 
spring,  which  forces  the  firing  pin  into  a  percussion 
cap.  This  ignites  the  fuse,  which  burns  down  and 
sets  off  the  detonator,  charged  with  fulminate  of 
mercury,  which  explodes  the  main  charge  of 
ammonal. 

The  average  British  soldier  is  not  an  expert  at 
throwing;  it  is  a  new  game  to  him,  therefore  the 
Canadians  and  Americans,  who  have  played  base- 
ball from  the  kindergarten  up,  take  naturally  to 
bomb  throwing  and  excel  in  this  act.  A  six-foot 
English  bomber  will  stand  in  awed  silence  when  he 
sees  a  little  five-foot-nothing  Canadian  out-dis- 
tance his  throw  by  several  yards.  I  have  read  a 
few  war  stories  of  bombing,  where  baseball  pitchers 
curved  their  bombs  when  throwing  them,  but  a 
pitcher  who  can  do  this  would  make  "  Christy " 
Mathewson  look  like  a  piker,  and  is  losing  valuable 
time  playing  in  the  European  War  Bush  League, 
when  he  would  be  able  to  set  the  "Big  League"  on 
fire. 

We  had  had  a  cushy  time  while  at  this  school. 


86  Over  the  Top 

In  fact,  to  us  it  was  a  regular  vacation,  and  we  were 
very  sorry  when  one  morning  the  Adjutant  ordered 
us  to  report  at  headquarters  for  transportation  and 
rations  to  return  to  our  units  up  the  line. 

Arriving  at  our  section,  the  boys  once  again 
tendered  us  the  glad  mitt,  but  looked  askance  at  us 
out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes.  They  could  not 
conceive,  as  they  expressed  it,  how  a  man  could  be 
such  a  blinking  idiot  to  join  the  Suicide  Club.  I 
was  beginning  to  feel  sorry  that  I  had  become  a 
member  of  said  club,  and  my  life  to  me  appeared 
doubly  precious. 

Now  that  I  was  a  sure  enough  bomber,  I  was 
praying  for  peace  and  hoping  that  my  services  as 
such  would  not  be  required. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MY  FIRST  OFFICIAL  BATH 

IGHT  behind  our  rest  billet  was  a  large  creek 
about  ten  feet  deep  and  twenty  feet  across, 
and  it  was  a  habit  of  the  company  to  avail  them- 
selves of  an  opportunity  to  take  a  swim  and  at  the 
same  time  thoroughly  wash  themselves  and  their 
underwear  when  on  their  own.  We  were  having  a 
spell  of  hot  weather,  and  these  baths  to  us  were  a 
luxury.  The  Tommies  would  splash  around  in 
the  water  and  then  come  out  and  sit  in  the  sun 
and  have  what  they  termed  a  "shirt  hunt." 
At  first  we  tried  to  drown  the  "  cooties,"  but  they 
also  seemed  to  enjoy  the  bath. 

One  Sunday  morning,  the  whole  section  was 
in  the  creek  and  we  were  having  a  gay  time,  when 
the  Sergeant-Major  appeared  on  the  scene.  He 
came  to  the  edge  of  the  creek  and  ordered :  "Come 
out  of  it.  Get  your  equipment  on,  '  Drill  order, ' 
and  fall  in  for  bath  parade.  Look  lively  my 

87 


88  Over  the  Top 

hearties.  You  have  only  got  fifteen  minutes." 
A  howl  of  indignation  from  the  creek  greeted  this 
order,  but  out  we  came.  Discipline  is  discipline. 
We  lined  up  in  front  of  our  billet  with  rifles  and 
bayonets  (why  you  need  rifles  and  bayonets  to 
take  a  bath  gets  me),  a  full  quota  of  ammunition, 
and  our  tin  hats.  Each  man  had  a  piece  of  soap 
and  a  towel.  After  an  eight-kilo  march  along  a 
dusty  road,  with  an  occasional  shell  whistling 
overhead,  we  arrived  at  a  little  squat  frame 
building  upon  the  bank  of  a  creek.  Nailed  over 
the  door  of  this  building  was  a  large  sign  which 
read  ''Divisional  Baths."  In  a  wooden  shed  in 
the  rear,  we  could  hear  a  wheezy  old  engine  pump- 
ing water. 

We  lined  up  in  front  of  the  baths,  soaked  with 
perspiration,  and  piled  our  rifles  into  stacks.  A 
Sergeant  of  the  R.  A.  M.  C.  with  a  yellow  band 
around  his  left  arm  on  which  was  "S.  P."  (Sani- 
tary Police)  in  black  letters,  took  charge,  ordering 
us  to  take  off  our  equipment,  unroll  our  puttees, 
and  unlace  boots.  Then,  starting  from  the  right 
of  the  line,  he  divided  us  into  squads  of  fifteen. 
I  happened  to  be  in  the  first  squad. 

We  entered  a  small  room  where  we  were  given 
five  minutes  to  undress,  then  filed  into  the  bath 


My  First  Official  Bath  89 

room.  In  here  there  were  fifteen  tubs  (barrels 
sawed  in  two)  half  full  of  water.  Each  tub  con- 
tained a  piece  of  laundry  soap.  The  Sergeant 
informed  us  that  we  had  just  twelve  minutes  in 
which  to  take  our  baths.  Soaping  ourselves  all 
over,  we  took  turns  in  rubbing  each  other's  backs, 
then  by  means  of  a  garden  hose,  washed  the  soap 
off.  The  water  was  ice  cold,  but  felt  fine. 

Pretty  soon  a  bell  rang  and  the  water  was 
turned  off.  Some  of  the  slower  ones  were  covered 
with  soap,  but  this  made  no  difference  to  the 
Sergeant,  who  chased  us  into  another  room, 
where  we  lined  up  in  front  of  a  little  window, 
resembling  the  box  office  in  a  theater,  and  received 
clean  underwear  and  towels.  From  here  we 
went  into  the  room  where  we  had  first  undressed. 
Ten  minutes  was  allowed  in  which  to  get  into 
our  "clabber." 

My  pair  of  drawers  came  up  to  my  chin  and 
the  shirt  barely  reached  my  diaphragm,  but  they 
were  clean, — no  strangers  on  them,  and  so  I  was 
satisfied. 

At  the  expiration  of  the  time  allotted  we  were 
turned  out  and  finished  our  dressing  on  the  grass. 

When  all  of  the  company  had  bathed  it  was 
a  case  of  march  back  to  billets.  That  march  was 


90  Over  the  Top 

the  most  uncongenial  one  imagined,  just  cussing 
and  blinding  all  the  way.  We  were  covered 
with  white  dust  and  felt  greasy  from  sweat.  The 
woolen  underwear  issued  was  itching  like  the 
mischief. 

After  eating  our  dinner  of  stew,  which  had 
been  kept  for  us, — it  was  now  four  o'clock, — we 
went  into  the  creek  and  had  another  bath. 

If  "Holy  Joe"  could  have  heard  our  remarks 
about  the  Divisional  Baths  and  army  red  tape,  he 
would  have  fainted  at  our  wickedness.  But 
Tommy  is  only  human  after  all. 

I  just  mentioned  "Holy  Joe"  or  the  Chaplain 
in  an  irreverent  sort  of  way  but  no  offense  was 
meant,  as  there  were  some  very  brave  men  among 
them. 

There  are  so  many  instances  of  heroic  deeds 
performed  under  fire  in  rescuing  the  wounded  that 
it  would  take  several  books  to  chronicle  them,  but 
I  have  to  mention  one  instance  performed  by  a 
Chaplain,  Captain  Hall  by  name,  in  the  Brigade 
on  our  left,  because  it  particularly  appealed  to  me. 

A  chaplain  is  not  a  fighting  man;  he  is  recog- 
nized as  a  non-combatant  and  carries  no  arms. 
In  a  charge  or  trench  raid  the  soldier  gets  a  feeling 
of  confidence  from  contact  with  his  rifle,  revolver, 


My  First  Official  Bath  91 

or  bomb  he  is  carrying.  He  has  something  to 
protect  himself  with,  something  with  which  he 
can  inflict  harm  on  the  enemy, — in  other  words, 
he  is  able  to  get  his  own  back. 

But  the  chaplain  is  empty  handed,  and  is  at  the 
mercy  of  the  enemy  if  he  encounters  them,  so  it  is 
doubly  brave  for  him  to  go  over  the  top,  under 
fire,  and  bring  in  wounded.  Also  a  chaplain 
is  not  required  by  the  King's  Regulations  to  go 
over  in  a  charge,  but  this  one  did,  made  three 
trips  under  the  hottest  kind  of  fire,  each  time  re- 
turning with  a  wounded  man  on  his  back.  On  the 
third  trip  he  received  a  bullet  through  his  left  arm, 
but  never  reported  the  matter  to  the  doctor  until 
late  that  night — just  spent  his  time  administering 
to  the  wants  of  the  wounded  lying  on  stretchers 
waiting  to  be  carried  to  the  rear  by  ambulances. 

The  chaplains  in  the  British  Army  are  a  fine, 
manly  set  of  men,  and  are  greatly  respected  by 
Tommy. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

PICKS  AND   SHOVELS 

I  HAD  not  slept  long  before  the  sweet  voice  of 
the  Sergeant  informed  that  "No.  I  Section  had 
clicked  for  another  blinking  digging  party."  I 
smiled  to  myself  with  deep  satisfaction.  I  had 
been  promoted  from  a  mere  digger  to  a  member 
of  the  Suicide  Club,  and  was  exempt  from  all 
fatigues.  Then  came  an  awful  shock.  The  Ser- 
geant looked  over  in  my  direction  and  said: 

"  Don't  you  bomb  throwers  think  that  you  are 
wearing  top  hats  out  here.  'Cordin'  to  orders 
youVe  been  taken  up  on  the  strength  of  this 
section,  and  will  have  to  do  your  bit  with  the  pick 
and  shovel,  same  as  the  rest  of  us." 

I  put  up  a  howl  on  my  way  to  get  my  shovel, 
but  the  only  thing  that  resulted  was  a  loss  of  good 
humor  on  my  part. 

We  fell  in  at  eight  o'clock,  outside  of  our  billets, 
a  sort  of  masquerade  party.  I  was  disguised  as 

92 


Picks  and  Shovels  93 

a  common  laborer,  had  a  pick  and  shovel,  and 
about  one  hundred  empty  sandbags.  The  rest, 
about  two  hundred  in  all,  were  equipped  like- 
wise: picks,  shovels,  sandbags,  rifles,  and  am- 
munition. 

The  party  moved  out  in  column  of  fours,  taking 
the  road  leading  to  the  trenches.  Several  times 
we  had  to  string  out  in  the  ditch  to  let  long  columns 
of  limbers,  artillery,  and  supplies  get  past. 

The  marching,  under  these  conditions,  was 
necessarily  slow.  Upon  arrival  at  the  entrance 
to  the  communication  trench,  I  looked  at  my 
illuminated  wrist-watch — it  was  eleven  o'clock. 

Before  entering  this  trench,  word  was  passed 
down  the  line,  "no  talking  or  smoking,  lead  off  in 
single  file,  covering  party  first." 

This  covering  party  consisted  of  thirty  men, 
armed  with  rifles,  bayonets,  bombs,  and  two 
Lewis  machine  guns.  They  were  to  protect  us 
and  guard  against  a  surprise  attack,  while  digging 
in  No  Man's  Land. 

The  communication  trench  was  about  half  a 
mile  long,  a  zigzagging  ditch,  eight  feet  deep  and 
three  feet  wide. 

Now  and  again,  German  shrapnel  would  whistle 
overhead  and  burst  in  our  vicinity.  We  would 


94  Over  the  Top 

crouch  against  the  earthen  walls  while  the  shell 
fragments  "slapped"  the  ground  above  us. 

Once  Fritz  turned  loose  with  a  machine  gun, 
the  bullets  from  which  "cracked"  through  the 
air  and  kicked  up  the  dirt  on  the  top,  scattering 
sand  and  pebbles,  which,  hitting  our  steel  helmets, 
sounded  like  hailstones. 

Upon  arrival  in  the  fire  trench  an  officer  of  the 
Royal  Engineers  gave  us  our  instructions  and 
acted  as  guide. 

We  were  to  dig  an  advanced  trench  two  hundred 
yards  from  the  Germans  (the  trenches  at  this 
point  were  six  hundred  yards  apart). 

Two  winding  lanes,  five  feet  wide,  had  been  cut 
through  our  barbed  wire,  for  the  passage  of  the 
diggers.  From  these  lanes  white  tape  had  been 
laid  on  the  ground  to  the  point  where  we  were  to 
commence  work.  This  in  order  that  we  would 
not  get  lost  in  the  darkness.  The  proposed 
trench  was  also  laid  out  with  tape. 

The  covering  party  went  out  first.  After  a 
short  wait,  two  scouts  came  back  with  information 
that  the  working  party  was  to  follow  and  "carry 
on"  with  their  work. 

In  extended  order,  two  yards  apart,  we  noise- 
lessly crept  across  No  Man's  Land.  It  was  ner- 


GERMAN 


NO 


MAN'S 


r 


5     " 


tf    /*    /?        X  O  WIRE. 


CRAM 

ILLUSTRATING   TYPICAL 

TRENCH, 

SECOMD  LINE     AND 
COMMUNICATION  TRANCHE 
STAT/QNS 
Sec. 


Picks  and  Shovels  95 

vous  work;  every  minute  we  expected  a  machine 
gun  to  open  fire  on  us.  Stray  bullets  "cracked" 
around  us,  or  a  ricochet  sang  overhead. 

Arriving  at  the  taped  diagram  of  the  trench, 
rifles  slung  around  our  shoulders,  we  lost  no  time 
in  getting  to  work.  We  dug  as  quietly  as  possible, 
but  every  now  and  then,  the  noise  of  a  pick  or 
shovel  striking  a  stone,  would  send  the  cold  shivers 
down  our  backs.  Under  our  breaths  we  heartily 
cursed  the  offending  Tommy. 

At  intervals  a  star  shell  would  go  up  from  the 
German  lines  and  we  would  remain  motionless 
until  the  glare  of  its  white  light  died  out. 

When  the  trench  had  reached  a  depth  of  two 
feet,  we  felt  safer,  because  it  would  afford  us  cover 
in  case  we  were  discovered  and  fired  on. 

The  digging  had  been  in  progress  about  two 
hours,  when  suddenly,  hell  seemed  to  break  loose 
in  the  form  of  machine  gun  and  rifle  fire. 

We  dropped  down  on  our  bellies  in  the  shallow 
trench,  bullets  knocking  up  the  ground  and 
snapping  in  the  air.  Then  the  shrapnel  butted  in. 
The  music  was  hot  and  Tommy  danced. 

The  covering  party  was  having  a  rough  time  of 
it;  they  had  no  cover;  just  had  to  take  their 
medicine. 


96  Over  the  Top 

Word  was  passed  down  the  line  to  beat  it  for 
our  trenches.  We  needed  no  urging;  grabbing 
our  tools  and  stooping  low,  we  legged  it  across 
No  Man's  Land.  The  covering  party  got  away 
to  a  poor  start  but  beat  us  in.  They  must  have 
had  wings  because  we  lowered  the  record. 

Panting  and  out  of  breath,  we  tumbled  into  our 
front-line  trench.  I  tore  my  hands  getting  through 
our  wire,  but,  at  the  time,  didn't  notice  it;  my 
journey  was  too  urgent. 

When  the  roll  was  called  we  found  that  we  had 
gotten  it  in  the  nose  for  sixty-three  casualties. 

Our  artillery  put  a  barrage  on  Fritz's  front-line 
and  communication  trenches  and  their  machine 
gun  and  rifle  fire  suddenly  ceased. 

Upon  the  cessation  of  this  fire,  stretcher-bearers 
went  out  to  look  for  killed  and  wounded.  Next 
day  we  learned  that  twenty-one  of  our  men  had 
been  killed  and  thirty-seven  wounded.  Five  men 
were  missing;  lost  in  the  darkness  they  must  have 
wandered  over  into  the  German  lines,  where  they 
were  either  killed  or  captured. 

Speaking  of  stretcher-bearers  and  wounded, 
it  is  very  hard  for  the  average  civilian  to  com- 
prehend the  enormous  cost  of  taking  care  of 
wounded  and  the  war  in  general.  He  or  she  gets 


Picks  and  Shovels  97 

so  accustomed  to  seeing  billions  of  dollars  in  print 
that  the  significance  of  the  amount  is  passed  over 
without  thought. 

From  an  official  statement  published  in  one  of 
the  London  papers,  it  is  stated  that  it  costs  be- 
tween six  and  seven  thousand  pounds  ($30,000 
to  $35,000)  to  kill  or  wound  a  soldier.  This 
result  was  attained  by  taking  the  cost  of  the 
war  to  date  and  dividing  it  by  the  killed  and 
wounded. 

It  may  sound  heartless  and  inhuman,  but  it  is 
a  fact,  nevertheless,  that  from  a  military  stand- 
point it  is  better  for  a  man  to  be  killed  than 
wounded. 

If  a  man  is  killed  he  is  buried,  and  the  re- 
sponsibility of  the  government  ceases,  excepting 
for  the  fact  that  his  people  receive  a  pension. 
But  if  a  man  is  wounded  it  takes  three  men  from 
the  firing  line,  the  wounded  man  and  two  men  to 
carry  him  to  the  rear  to  the  advanced  first-aid  post. 
Here  he  is  attended  by  a  doctor,  perhaps  assisted 
by  two  R.  A.  M.  C.  men.  Then  he  is  put  into  a 
motor  ambulance,  manned  by  a  crew  of  two  or 
three.  At  the  field  hospital,  where  he  generally 
goes  under  an  anaesthetic,  either  to  have  his  wounds 
cleaned  or  to  be  operated  on,  he  requires  the  ser- 


98  Over  the  Top 

vices  of  about  three  to  five  persons.  From  this 
point  another  ambulance  ride  impresses  more 
men  in  his  service,  and  then  at  the  ambulance 
train,  another  corps  of  doctors,  R.  A.  M.  C.  men, 
Red  Cross  nurses,  and  the  train's  crew.  From 
the  train  he  enters  the  base  hospital  or  Casualty 
Clearing  Station,  where  a  good-sized  corps  of 
doctors,  nurses,  etc.,  are  kept  busy.  Another 
ambulance  journey  is  next  in  order — this  time 
to  the  hospital  ship.  He  crosses  the  Channel, 
arrives  in  Blighty — more  ambulances  and  perhaps 
a  ride  for  five  hours  on  an  English  Red  Cross 
train  with  its  crew  of  Red  Cross  workers,  and  at 
last  he  reaches  the  hospital.  Generally  he  stays 
from  two  to  six  months,  or  longer,  in  this  hospital. 
From  here  he  is  sent  to  a  convalescent  home  for 
six  weeks. 

If  by  wounds  he  is  unfitted  for  further  service, 
he  is  discharged,  given  a  pension,  or  committed 
to  a  Soldiers'  Home  for  the  rest  of  his  life, — and 
still  the  expense  piles  up.  When  you  realize 
that  all  the  ambulances,  trains,  and  ships,  not  to 
mention  the  man-power,  used  in  transporting  a 
wounded  man,  could  be  used  for  supplies,  ammuni- 
tion, and  reinforcements  for  the  troops  at  the 
front,  it  will  not  appear  strange  that  from  a 


Picks  and  Shovels  99 

strictly  military  standpoint,  a  dead  man  is  some- 
times better  than  a  live  one  (if  wounded). 

Not  long  after  the  first  digging  party,  our  General 
decided,  after  a  careful  tour  of  inspection  of  the 
communication  trenches,  upon  "an  ideal  spot," 
as  he  termed  it,  for  a  machine-gun  emplacement. 
Took  his  map,  made  a  dot  on  it,  and  as  he  was 
wont,  wrote  "dig  here,"  and  the  next  night  we 
dug. 

There  were  twenty  in  the  party,  myself  included. 
Armed  with  picks,  shovels,  and  empty  sandbags 
we  arrived  at  the  "ideal  spot"  and  started  dig- 
ging. The  moon  was  very  bright,  but  we  did  not 
care  as  we  were  well  out  of  sight  of  the  German 
lines. 

We  had  gotten  about  three  feet  down,  when  the 
fellow  next  to  me,  after  a  mighty  stroke  with  his 
pick,  let  go  of  the  handle,  and  pinched  his  nose 
with  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  at  the  same  time 
letting  out  the  explosion,  "Gott  strafe  me  pink, 
I'm  bloody  well  gassed,  not  'alf  I  ain't."  I 
quickly  turned  in  his  direction  with  an  inquiring 
look,  at  the  same  instant  reaching  for  my  gas  bag. 
I  soon  found  out  what  was  ailing  him.  One  whiff 
was  enough  and  I  lost  no  time  in  also  pinching 
my  nose.  The  stench  was  awful.  The  rest  of  the 


ioo  Over  the  Top 

digging  party  dropped  their  picks  and  shovels 
and  beat  it  for  the  weather  side  of  that  solitary 
pick.  The  officer  came  over  and  inquired  why  the 
work  had  suddenly  ceased,  holding  our  noses,  we 
simply  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the  smell.  He 
went  over  to  the  pick,  immediately  clapped  his 
hand  over  his  nose,  made  an  "about  turn"  and 
came  back.  Just  then  our  Captain  came  along 
and  investigated,  but  after  about  a  minute  said 
we  had  better  carry  on  with  the  digging,  that  he 
did  not  see  why  we  should  have  stopped  as  the 
odor  was  very  faint,  but  if  necessary  he  would 
allow  us  to  use  our  gas  helmets  while  digging.  He 
would  stay  and  see  the  thing  through,  but  he  had 
to  report  back  at  Brigade  Headquarters  immedi- 
ately. We  wished  that  we  were  Captains  and 
also  had  a  date  at  Brigade  Headquarters.  With 
our  gas  helmets  on  we  again  attacked  that  hole  and 
uncovered  the  decomposed  body  of  a  German; 
the  pick  was  sticking  in  his  chest.  One  of  the 
men  fainted.  I  was  that  one.  Upon  this  our 
Lieutenant  halted  proceedings  and  sent  word  back 
to  headquarters  and  word  came  back  that  after  we 
filled  in  the  hole  we  could  knock  off  for  the  night. 

This  was  welcome  tidings  to  us,  because 

Next  day  the  General  changed  the  dot  on  his 


Picks  and  Shovels  101 

map  and  another  emplacement  was  completed 
the  following  night. 

The  odor  from  a  dug-up,  decomposed  human 
body  has  an  effect  which  is  hard  to  describe.  It 
first  produces  a  nauseating  feeling,  which,  especi- 
ally after  eating,  causes  vomiting.  This  relieves 
you  temporarily,  but  soon  a  weakening  sensation 
follows,  which  leaves  you  limp  as  a  dish-rag.  Your 
spirits  are  at  their  lowest  ebb  and  you  feel  a  sort 
of  hopeless  helplessness  and  a  mad  desire  to  escape 
it  all,  to  get  to  the  open  fields  and  the  perfume  of 
the  flowers  in  Blighty.  There  is  a  sharp,  prickling 
sensation  in  the  nostrils,  which  reminds  one  of 
breathing  coal  gas  through  a  radiator  in  the  floor, 
and  you  want  to  sneeze,  but  cannot.  This  was 
the  effect  on  me,  surmounted  by  a  vague  horror 
of  the  awf ulness  of  the  thing  and  an  ever-recurring 
reflection  that,  perhaps  I,  sooner  or  later,  would 
be  in  such  a  state  and  be  brought  to  light  by  the 
blow  of  a  pick  in  the  hands  of  some  Tommy  on  a 
digging  party. 

Several  times  I  have  experienced  this  odor, 
but  never  could  get  used  to  it ;  the  enervating  sen- 
sation was  always  present.  It  made  me  hate 
war  and  wonder  why  such  things  were  counte- 
nanced by  civilization,  and  all  the  spice  and  glory 


102  Over  the  Top 

of  the  conflict  would  disappear,  leaving  the  grim 
reality.  But  after  leaving  the  spot  and  filling 
your  lungs  with  deep  breaths  of  pure,  fresh  air, 
you  forget  and  once  again  want  to  be  "up  and  at 
them." 


CHAPTER  XV 

LISTENING  POST 

TT  was  six  in  the  morning  when  we  arrived  at  our 
•*  rest  billets,  and  we  were  allowed  to  sleep 
until  noon;  that  is,  if  we  wanted  to  go  without 
our  breakfast.  For  sixteen  days  we  remained  in 
rest  billets,  digging  roads,  drilling,  and  other 
fatigues,  and  then  back  into  the  front-line  trench. 

Nothing  happened  that  night,  but  the  next 
afternoon  I  found  out  that  a  bomber  is  general 
utility  man  in  a  section. 

About  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  our  Lieuten- 
ant came  down  the  trench  and  stopping  in  front 
of  a  bunch  of  us  on  the  fire  step,  with  a  broad  grin 
on  his  face,  asked : 

"Who  is  going  to  volunteer  for  listening  post 
to-night?  I  need  two  men." 

It  is  needless  to  say  no  one  volunteered,  because 
it  is  anything  but  a  cushy  job.  I  began  to  feel 
uncomfortable  as  I  knew  it  was  getting  around 

103 


104  Over  the  Top 

for  my  turn.  Sure  enough,  with  another  grin, 
he  said: 

' '  Empey,  you  and  Wheeler  are  due,  so  come  down 
into  my  dugout  for  instructions  at  six  o'clock. " 

Just  as  he  left  and  was  going  around  a  traverse, 
Fritz  turned  loose  with  a  machine  gun  and  the 
bullets  ripped  the  sandbags  right  over  his  head. 
It  gave  me  great  pleasure  to  see  him  duck  against 
the  parapet.  He  was  getting  a  taste  of  what  we 
would  get  later  out  in  front. 

Then,  of  course,  it  began  to  rain.  I  knew  it 
was  the  forerunner  of  a  miserable  night  for  us. 
Every  time  I  had  to  go  out  in  front,  it  just  natur- 
ally rained.  Old  Jupiter  Pluvius  must  have  had 
it  in  for  me. 

At  six  we  reported  for  instructions.  They  were 
simple  and  easy.  All  we  had  to  do  was  to  crawl 
out  into  No  Man's  Land,  lie  on  our  bellies  with 
our  ears  to  the  ground  and  listen  for  the  tap  tap 
of  the  German  engineers  or  sappers  who  might  be 
tunnelling  under  No  Man's  Land  to  establish  a 
mine-head  beneath  our  trench. 

Of  course,  in  our  orders  we  were  told  not  to  be 
captured  by  German  patrols  or  reconnoitering 
parties.  Lots  of  breath  is  wasted  on  the  Western 
Front  giving  silly  cautions. 


Listening  Post  105 

As  soon  as  it  was  dark,  Wheeler  and  I  crawled 
to  our  post  which  was  about  half-way  between  the 
lines.  It  was  raining  bucketsful,  the  ground  was 
a  sea  of  sticky  mud  and  clung  to  us  like  glue. 

We  took  turns  in  listening  with  our  ears  to  the 
ground.  I  would  listen  for  twenty  minutes  while 
Wheeler  would  be  on  the  qui  vive  for  German 
patrols. 

We  each  wore  a  wrist-watch,  and  believe  me, 
neither  one  of  us  did  over  twenty  minutes.  The 
rain  soaked  us  to  the  skin  and  our  ears  were  full  of 
mud. 

Every  few  minutes  a  bullet  would  crack  over- 
head or  a  machine  gun  would  traverse  back  and 
forth. 

Then  all  firing  suddenly  ceased.  I  whispered 
to  Wheeler,  "Keep  your  eye  skinned,  mate,  most 
likely  Fritz  has  a  patrol  out, — that's  why  the 
Boches  have  stopped  firing. " 

We  were  each  armed  with  a  rifle  and  bayonet 
and  three  Mills  bombs  to  be  used  for  defense 
only. 

I  had  my  ear  to  the  ground.  All  of  a  sudden 
I  heard  faint,  dull  thuds.  In  a  very  low,  but 
excited  voice,  I  whispered  to  Wheeler,  "I  think 
they  are  mining,  listen." 


106  Over  the  Top 

He  put  his  ear  to  the  ground  and  in  an  unsteady 
Voice  spoke  into  my  ear : 

"Yank,  that's  a  patrol  and  it's  heading  our 
way.  For  God's  sake  keep  still." 

I  was  as  still  as  a  mouse  and  was  scared  stiff. 

Hardly  breathing  and  with  eyes  trying  to 
pierce  the  inky  blackness,  we  waited.  I  would 
have  given  a  thousand  pounds  to  have  been  safely 
in  my  dugout. 

Then  we  plainly  heard  footsteps  and  our  hearts 
stood  still. 

A  dark  form  suddenly  loomed  up  in  front  of  me, 
it  looked  as  big  as  the  Woolworth  Building.  I 
could  hear  the  blood  rushing  through  my  veins 
and  it  sounded  as  loud  as  Niagara  Falls. 

Forms  seemed  to  emerge  from  the  darkness. 
There  were  seven  of  them  in  all.  I  tried  to  wish 
them  away.  I  never  wished  harder  in  my  life. 
They  muttered  a  few  words  in  German  and  melted 
into  the  blackness.  I  didn't  stop  wishing  either. 

All  of  a  sudden  we  heard  a  stumble,  a  muddy 
splash,  and  a  muttered,  "Donner  und  Blitzen." 
One  of  the  Boches  had  tumbled  into  a  shell  hole. 
Neither  of  us  laughed.  At  that  time — it  didn't 
strike  us  as  funny. 

About  twenty  minutes  after  the  Germans  had 


Listening  Post  107 

disappeared,  something  from  the  rear  grabbed  me 
by  the  foot.     I  nearly  fainted  with  fright.    Then 
a  welcome  whisper  in  a  cockney  accent. 
"I  s'y,  myte,  we've  come  to  relieve  you." 
Wheeler  and  I  crawled  back  to  our  trench,  we 
looked  like  wet  hens  and  felt  worse.    After  a  swig 
of  rum  we  were  soon  fast  asleep  on  the  fire  step  in 
our  wet  clothes. 

The  next  morning  I  was  as  stiff  as  a  poker  and 
every  joint  ached  like  a  bad  tooth,  but  I  was  still 
alive,  so  it  did  not  matter. 


CHAETER  XVI 

BATTERY  D  238 

HTHE  day  after  this  I  received  the  glad  tidings  that 
*  I  would  occupy  the  machine-gunners'  dugout 
right  near  the  advanced  artillery  observation  post. 
This  dugout  was  a  roomy  affair,  dry  as  tinder,  and 
real  cots  in  it.  These  cots  had  been  made  by  the 
R.  E.'s  who  had  previously  occupied  the  dugout. 
I  was  the  first  to  enter  and  promptly  made  a 
sign  board  with  my  name  and  number  on  it  and 
suspended  it  from  the  foot  of  the  most  comfortable 
cot  therein. 

In  the  trenches,  it  is  always  "first  come,  first 
served, "  and  this  is  lived  up  to  by  all. 

Two  R.  F.  A.  men  (Royal  Field  Artillery)  from 
the  nearby  observation  post  were  allowed  the 
privilege  of  stopping  in  this  dugout  while  off  duty. 

One  of  these  men,  Bombadier  Wilson  by  name, 
who  belonged  to  Battery  D  238,  seemed  to  take  a 
liking  to  me,  and  I  returned  this  feeling. 

108 


Battery  D  258  109 

In  two  days'  time  we  were  pretty  chummy,  and 
he  told  me  how  his  battery  in  the  early  days  of 
the  war  had  put  over  a  stunt  on  Old  Pepper,  and 
had  gotten  away  with  it. 

I  will  endeavor  to  give  the  story  as  far  as 
memory  will  permit  in  his  own  words: 

"I  came  out  with  the  First  Expeditionary 
Force,  and  like  all  the  rest,  thought  we  would  have 
the  enemy  licked  in  jig  time,  and  be  able  to  eat 
Christmas  dinner  at  home.  Well,  so  far,  I  have 
eaten  two  Christmas  dinners  in  the  trenches,  and 
am  liable  to  eat  two  more,  the  way  things  are 
pointing.  That  is,  if  Fritz  don't  drop  a  'whizz- 
bang  '  on  me,  and  send  me  to  Blighty.  Sometimes 
I  wish  I  would  get  hit,  because  it's  no  great  picnic 
out  here,  and  twenty-two  months  of  it  makes  you 
fed  up. 

"It's  fairly  cushy  now  compared  to  what  it 
used  to  be,  although  I  admit  this  trench  is  a 
trifle  rough.  Now,  we  send  over  five  shells  to 
their  one.  We  are  getting  our  own  back,  but  in 
the  early  days  it  was  different.  Then  you  had  to 
take  everything  without  a  reply.  In  fact,  we 
would  get  twenty  shells  in  return  for  every  one 
we  sent  over.  Fritz  seemed  to  enjoy  it,  but  we 
British  didn't,  we  were  the  sufferers.  Just  one 


no  Over  the  Top 

casualty  after  another.  Sometimes  whole  platoons 
would  disappear,  especially  when  a  'Jack  Johnson ' 
plunked  into  their  middle.  It  got  so  bad,  that  a 
fellow,  when  writing  home,  wouldn't  ask  for  any 
cigarettes  to  be  sent  out,  because  he  was  afraid 
he  wouldn't  be  there  to  receive  them. 

"After  the  drive  to  Paris  was  turned  back, 
trench  warfare  started.  Our  General  grabbed  a 
map,  drew  a  pencil  line  across  it,  and  said,  'Dig 
here,'  then  he  went  back  to  his  tea,  and  Tommy 
armed  himself  with  a  pick  and  shovel,  and  started 
digging.  He's  been  digging  ever  since. 

"Of  course,  we  dug  those  trenches  at  night, 
but  it  was  hot  work  what  with  the  rifle  and 
machine-gun  fire.  The  stretcher-bearers  worked 
harder  than  the  diggers. 

"Those  trenches,  bloomin'  ditches,  I  call  them, 
were  a  nightmare.  They  were  only  about  five 
feet  deep,  and  you  used  to  get  the  backache  from 
bending  down.  It  wasn't  exactly  safe  to  stand 
upright  either,  because  as  soon  as  your  napper 
showed  over  the  top,  a  bullet  would  bounce  off  it, 
or  else  come  so  close  it  would  make  your  hair 
stand. 

"We  used  to  fill  sandbags  and  stick  them  on  top 
of  the  parapet  to  make  it  higher,  but  no  use,  they 


Battery  D  238  in 

would  be  there  about  an  hour,  and  then  Fritz 
would  turn  loose  and  blow  them  to  bits.  My  neck 
used  to  be  sore  from  ducking  shells  and  bullets. 

"  Where  my  battery  was  stationed,  a  hasty 
trench  had  been  dug,  which  the  boys  nicknamed 
'Suicide  Ditch,'  and  believe  me,  Yank,  this  was 
the  original  'Suicide  Ditch/  All  the  others  are 
imitations. 

"When  a  fellow  went  into  that  trench,  it  was 
an  even  gamble  that  he  would  come  out  on  a 
stretcher.  At  one  time,  a  Scotch  battalion  held 
it,  and  when  they  heard  the  betting  was  even 
money  that  they'd  come  out  on  stretchers,  they 
grabbed  all  the  bets  in  sight.  Like  a  lot  of  bally 
idiots  several  of  the  battery  men  fell  for  their 
game,  and  put  up  real  money.  The  'Jocks' 
suffered  a  lot  of  casualties,  and  the  prospects 
looked  bright  for  the  battery  men  to  collect  some 
easy  money.  So  when  the  battalion  was  relieved, 
the  gamblers  lined  up.  Several  '  Jocks '  got  their 
money  for  emerging  safely,  but  the  ones  who 
clicked  it,  weren't  there  to  pay.  The  artillery- 
men had  never  thought  it  out  that  way.  Those 
Scotties  were  bound  to  be  sure  winners,  no  matter 
how  the  wind  blew.  So  take  a  tip  from  me,  never 
bet  with  a  Scottie,  'cause  you'll  lose  money. 


ii2  Over  the  Top 

"At  one  part  of  our  trench  where  a  communi- 
cation trench  joined  the  front  line,  a  Tommy  had 
stuck  up  a  wooden  sign-post  with  three  hands  or 
arms  on  it.  One  of  the  hands  pointing  to  the 
German  lines  read,  'To  Berlin/  the  one  pointing 
down  the  communication  trench  read,  'To 
Blighty,'  while  the  other  said,  'Suicide  Ditch, 
Change  Here  for  Stretchers.' 

"Farther  down  from  this  guide  post  the  trench 
ran  through  an  old  orchard.  On  the  edge  of  this 
orchard  our  battery  had  constructed  an  advanced 
observation  post.  The  trees  screened  it  from  the 
enemy  airmen  and  the  roof  was  turfed.  It  wasn't 
cushy  like  ours,  no  timber  or  concrete  reinforce- 
ments, just  walls  and  roof  of  sandbags.  From  it, 
a  splendid  view  of  the  German  lines  could  be 
obtained.  This  post  wasn't  exactly  safe.  It  was 
a  hot  corner,  shells  plunking  all  around,  and  the 
bullets  cutting  leaves  off  the  trees.  Many  a  time 
when  relieving  the  signaler  at  the  'phone,  I  had 
to  crawl  on  my  belly  like  a  worm  to  keep  from 
being  hit. 

"It  was  an  observation  post  sure  enough. 
That's  all  the  use  it  was.  Just  observe  all  day, 
but  never  a  message  back  for  our  battery  to  open 
up.  You  see,  at  this  point  of  the  line  there  were 


Battery  D  238  113 

strict  orders  not  to  fire  a  shell,  unless  specially 
ordered  to  do  so  from  Brigade  Headquarters. 
Blime  me,  if  anyone  disobeyed  that  command, 
our  General — yes,  it  was  Old  Pepper, — would  have 
courtmartialed  the  whole  Expeditionary  Force. 
Nobody  went  out  of  their  way  to  disobey  Old 
Pepper  in  those  days,  because  he  couldn't  be  called 
a  parson;  he  was  more  like  a  pirate.  If  at  any 
time  the  devil  should  feel  lonely,  and  sigh  for  a 
proper  mate,  Old  Pepper  would  get  the  first  call. 
Facing  the  Germans  wasn't  half  bad  compared 
with  an  interview  with  that  old  firebrand. 

"If  a  company  or  battalion  should  give  way  a 
few  yards  against  a  superor  force  of  Boches, 
Old  Pepper  would  send  for  the  commanding 
officer.  In  about  half  an  hour  the  officer  would 
come  back  with  his  face  the  color  of  a  brick,  and 
in  a  few  hours,  what  was  left  of  his  command, 
would  be  holding  their  original  position. 

"I  have  seen  an  officer,  who  wouldn't  say '  damn ' 
for  a  thousand  quid,  spend  five  minutes  with  the 
old  boy,  and  when  he  returned,  the  flow  of  lan- 
guage from  his  lips  would  make  a  navvy  blush 
for  shame. 

"What  I  am  going  to  tell  you  is  how  two  of  us 
put  it  over  on  the  old  scamp,  and  got  away  with 


H4  Over  the  Top 

it.  It  was  a  risky  thing,  too,  because  Old  Pepper 
wouldn't  have  been  exactly  mild  with  us  if  he 
had  got  next  to  the  game. 

"Me  and  my  mate,  a  lad  named  Harry  Cassell, 
a  Bombadier  in  D  238  Battery,  or  Lance- Corporal, 
as  you  call  it  in  the  infantry,  used  to  relieve  the 
telephonists.  We  would  do  two  hours  on  and 
four  off.  I  would  be  on  duty  in  the  advanced 
observation  post,  while  he  would  be  at  the  other 
end  of  the  wire  in  the  battery  dugout  signaling 
station.  We  were  supposed  to  send  through  orders 
for  the  battery  to  fire  when  ordered  to  do  so  by 
the  observation  officer  in  the  advanced  post. 
But  very  few  messages  were  sent.  It  was  only  in 
case  of  an  actual  attack  that  we  would  get  a 
chance  to  earn  our  'two  and  six'  a  day.  You  see, 
Old  Pepper  had  issued  orders  not  to  fire  except 
when  the  orders  came  from  him.  And  with  Old 
Pepper  orders  is  orders,  and  made  to  obey. 

"The  Germans  must  have  known  about  these 
orders,  for  even  in  the  day  their  transports  and 
troops  used  to  expose  themselves  as  if  they  were 
on  parade.  This  sure  got  up  our  nose,  sitting 
there  day  after  day,  with  fine  targets  in  front  of 
us  but  unable  to  send  over  a  shell.  We  heartily 
cussed  Old  Pepper,  his  orders,  the  government, 


Battery  D  258  115 

the  people  at  home,  and  everything  in  general. 
But  the  Boches  didn't  mind  cussing,  and  got  very 
careless.  Blime  me,  they  were  bally  insulting. 
Used  to,  when  using  a  certain  road,  throw  their 
caps  into  the  air  as  a  taunt  at  our  helplessness. 

"Cassell  had  been  a  telegrapher  in  civil  life 
and  joined  up  when  war  was  declared.  As  for 
me,  I  knew  Morse,  learned  it  at  the  Signaler's 
School  back  in  1910.  With  an  officer  in  the  ob- 
servation post,  we  could  not  carry  on  the  kind  of 
conversation  that's  usual  between  two  mates,  so 
we  used  the  Morse  code.  To  send,  one  of  us  would 
tap  the  transmitter  with  his  finger  nails,  and  the 
one  on  the  other  end  would  get  it  through  the 
receiver.  Many  an  hour  was  whiled  away  in  this 
manner  passing  compliments  back  and  forth. 

"In  the  observation  post,  the  officer  used  to  sit 
for  hours  with  a  powerful  pair  of  field  glasses  to 
his  eyes.  Through  a  cleverly  concealed  loophole 
he  would  scan  the  ground  behind  the  German 
trenches,  looking  for  targets,  and  finding  many. 
This  officer,  Captain  A—  -  by  name,  had  a  habit  of 
talking  out  loud  to  himself.  Sometimes  he  would 
vent  his  opinion,  same  as  a  common  private  does 
when  he's  wrought  up.  Once  upon  a  time  the 
Captain  had  been  on  Old  Pepper's  staff,  so  he 


n6  Over  the  Top 

could  cuss  and  blind  in  the  most  approved  style. 
Got  to  be  sort  of  a  habit  with  him. 

"About  six  thousand  yards  from  us,  behind  the 
German  lines,  was  a  road  in  plain  view  of  our  post. 
For  the  last  three  days,  Fritz  had  brought  com- 
panies of  troops  down  this  road  in  broad  daylight. 
They  were  never  shelled.  Whenever  this  hap- 
pened, the  Captain  would  froth  at  the  mouth  and 
let  out  a  volume  of  Old  Pepper's  religion  which 
used  to  make  me  love  him. 

"Every  battery  has  a  range  chart  on  which 
distinctive  landmarks  are  noted,  with  the  range 
for  each.  These  landmarks  are  called  targets, 
and  are  numbered.  On  our  battery's  chart,  that 
road  was  called  'Target  Seventeen,  Range  6000, 
three  degrees,  thirty  minutes  left.'  D  238  Bat- 
tery consisted  of  four  '4.5'  howitzers,  and 
fired  a  thirty-five  pound  H.  E.  shell.  As  you 
know,  H.  E.  means  '  high  explosive.'  I  don't  like 
bumming  up  my  own  battery,  but  we  had  a 
record  in  the  Division  for  direct  hits,  and  our  boys 
were  just  pining  away  for  a  chance  to  exhibit 
their  skill  in  the  eyes  of  Fritz. 

"On  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  of  Fritz's 
contemptuous  use  of  the  road  mentioned,  the 
Captain  and  I  were  at  our  posts  as  usual.  Fritz 


Battery  D  238  117 

was  strafeing  us  pretty  rough,  just  like  he's 
doing  now.  The  shells  were  playing  leapfrog 
all  through  that  orchard. 

"I  was  carrying  on  a  conversation  in  our  'tap' 
code  with  Cassell  at  the  other  end.  It  ran  some- 
thing like  this : 

"'Say,  Cassell,  how  would  you  like  to  be  in  the 
saloon  bar  of  the  King's  Arms  down  Rye  Lane 
with  a  bottle  of  Bass  in  front  of  you,  and  that 
blonde  barmaid  waiting  to  fill  'em  up  again?' 

"Cassell  had  a  fancy  for  that  particular  blonde. 
The  answer  came  back  in  the  shape  of  a  volley 
of  cusses.  I  Changed  the  subject. 

"After  awhile  our  talk  veered  round  to  the  way 
the  Boches  had  been  exposing  themselves  on  the 
road  known  on  the  chart  as  Target  Seventeen. 
What  we  said  about  those  Boches  would  never 
have  passed  the  Reichstag,  though  I  believe  it 
would  have  gone  through  pur  Censor  easily 
enough. 

"The  bursting  shells  were  making  such  a  din 
that  I  packed  up  talking  and  took  to  watching 
the  Captain.  He  was  fidgeting  around  on  an 
old  sandbag  with  the  glass  to  his  eye.  Occasion- 
ally he  would  let  out  a  grunt,  and  make  some 
remark  I  couldn't  hear  on  account  of  the  noise, 


ii8  Over  the  Top 

but  I  guessed  what  it  was  all  right.     Fritz  was 
getting  fresh  again  on  that  road. 

"Cassell  had  been  sending  in  the  'tap  code'  to 
me,  but  I  was  fed  up  and  didn't  bother  with  it. 
Then  he  sent  0.  S.,  and  I  was  all  attention,  for 
this  was  a  call  used  between  us  which  meant  that 
something  important  was  on.  I  was  all  ears  in  an 
instant.  Then  Cassell  turned  loose. 

"'You  blankety  blank  dud,  I  have  been  trying 
to  raise  you  for  fifteen  minutes.  What's  the 
matter,  are  you  asleep?'  (Just  as  if  anyone 
could  have  slept  in  that  infernal  racket!)  'Never 
mind  framing  a  nasty  answer.  Just  listen. ' 

"'Are  you  game  for  putting  something  over  on 
the  Boches,  and  Old  Pepper  all  in  one?' 

"I  answered  that  I  was  game  enough  when  it 
came  to  putting  it  over  the  Boches,  but  confessed 
that  I  had  a  weakening  of  the  spine,  even  at  the 
mention  of  Old  Pepper's  name. 

"He  came  back  with,  'It's  so  absurdly  easy  and 
simple  that  there  is  no  chance  of  the  old  heathen 
rumbling  it.  Anyway,  if  we're  caught,  I'll  take 
the  blame.' 

"Under  those  conditions  I  told  him  to  spit  out 
his  scheme.  It  was  so  daring  and  simple  that  it 
took  my  breath  away.  This  is  what  he  proposed: 


Battery  D  258  119 

"If  the  Boches  should  use  that  road  again,  to 
send  by  the  tap  system  the  target  and  range.  I 
had  previously  told  him  about  our  Captain 
talking  out  loud  as  if  he  were  sending  through 
orders.  Well,  if  this  happened,  I  was  to  send  the 
dope  to  Cassell  and  he  would  transmit  it  to  the 
Battery  Commander  as  officially  coming  through 
the  observation  post.  Then  the  battery  would 
open  up.  Afterwards,  during  the  investigation, 
Cassell  would  swear  he  received  it  direct.  They 
would  have  to  believe  him,  because  it  was  im- 
possible from  his  post  in  the  battery  dugout  to 
know  that  the  road  was  being  used  at  that  time 
by  the  Germans.  And  also  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  give  the  target,  range,  and  degrees.  You 
know  a  battery  chart  is  not  passed  around  among 
the  men  like  a  newspaper  from  Blighty.  From 
him,  the  investigation  would  go  to  the  observation 
post,  and  the  observing  officer  could  truthfully 
swear  that  I  had  not  sent  the  message  by  'phone, 
and  that  no  orders  to  fire  had  been  issued  by  him. 
The  investigators  would  then  be  up  in  the  air,  we 
would  be  safe,  the  Boches  would  receive  a  good 
bashing,  and  we  would  get  our  own  back  on  Old 
Pepper.  It  was  too  good  to  be  true.  I  gleefully  fell 
in  with  the  scheme,  and  told  Cassell  I  was  his  meat. 


120  Over  the  Top 

"Then  I  waited  with  beating  heart,  and  watched 
the  Captain  like  a  hawk. 

"He  was  beginning  to  fidget  again  and  was 
drumming  on  the  sandbags  with  his  feet.  At 
last,  turning  to  me,  he  said: 

"'Wilson,  this  army  is  a  blankety  blank  wash- 
out. What's  the  use  of  having  artillery  if  it  is 
not  allowed  to  fire?  The  government  at  home 
ought  to  be  hanged  with  some  of  their  red  tape. 
It's  through  them  that  we  have  no  shells.' 

"I  answered,  'Yes  sir,'  and  started  sending  this 
opinion  over  the  wire  to  Cassell,  but  the  Captain 
interrupted  me  with: 

"'Keep  those  infernal  fingers  still.  What's 
the  matter,  getting  the  nerves?  When  I'm 
talking  to  you,  pay  attention.' 

"My  heart  sank.  Supposing  he  had  rumbled 
that  tapping,  then  all  would  be  up  with  our  plan. 
I  stopped  drumming  with  my  fingers,  and  said: 

"  '  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  just  a  habit  with  me.' 

'"And  a  damned  silly  one,  too,'  he  answered, 
turning  to  his  glasses  again,  and  I  knew  I  was  safe. 
He  had  not  tumbled  to  the  meaning  of  that 
tapping. 

"All  at  'once,  without  turning  round,  he 
exclaimed : 


Battery  D  258  121 

'"Well,  of  all  the  nerve  I've  ever  run  across, 
this  takes  the  cake.  Those  —  —  Boches  are 
using  that  road  again.  Blind  my  eyes,  this  time 
it  is  a  whole  Brigade  of  them,  transports  and 
all.  What  a  pretty  target  for  our  '4-5's.'  The 
beggars  know  we  wont  fire.  A  damned  shame 
I  call  it.  Oh,  just  for  a  chance  to  turn  D  238 
loose  on  them.'  ~ 

"I  was  trembling  with  excitement.  From 
repeated  stolen  glances  at  the  Captain's  range 
chart,  that  road  with  its  range  was  burned  into 
my  mind. 

"Over  the  wire  I  tapped,  _'D  238  Battery, 
Target  Seventeen,  Range  6000,  three  degrees, 
thirty  minutes,  left,  Salvo,  Fire.'  Cassell  O.  K.'d 
my  message,  and  with  the  receiver  pressed  against 
my  ear,  I  waited  and  listened.  In  a  couple  of 
minutes  very  faintly  over  the  wire  came  the 
voice  of  our  Battery  Commander  issuing  the  order: 
'  D  238  Battery.  Salvo !  Fire ! ' 

''Then  a  roar  through  the  receiver  as  the  four 
guns  belched  forth,  a  screaming  and  whistling 
overhead,  and  the  shells  were  on  their  way. 

"The  Captain  jumped  as  if  he  were  shot,  and 
let  out  a  great  big  expressive  Damn,  and  eagerly 
turned  his  glasses  in  the  direction  of  the  German 


122  Over  the  Top 

road.  I  also  strained  my  eyes  watching  that 
target.  Four  black  clouds  of  dust  rose  up  right 
in  the  middle  of  the  German  column.  Four  direct 
hits — another  record  for  D  238. 

"The  shells  kept  on  whistling  overhead,  and  I 
had  counted  twenty-four  of  them  when  the  firing 
suddenly  ceased.  When  the  smoke  and  dust 
clouds  lifted,  the  destruction  on  that  road  was 
awful.  Overturned  limbers  and  guns,  wagons 
smashed  up,  troops  fleeing  in  all  directions.  The 
road  and  roadside  were  spotted  all  over  with  little 
field  gray  dots,  the  toll  of  our  guns. 

"The  Captain,  in  his  excitement,  had  slipped 
off  the  sandbag,  and  was  on  his  knees  in  the  mud, 
the  glass  still  at  his  eye.  He  was  muttering  to 
himself  and  slapping  his  thigh  with  his  disengaged 
hand.  At  every  slap  a  big  round  juicy  cuss  word 
would  escape  from  his  lips  followed  by : 

"  'Good,  Fine, — Marvelous,  Pretty  Work,  Direct 
Hits,  All.' 

"Then  he  turned  to  me  and  shouted: 
"Wilson,  what  do  you  think  of  it?    Did  you 
ever  see  the  like  of  it  in  your  life?    Damn  fine 
work,  I  call  it.' 

"Pretty  soon  a  look  of  wonder  stole  over  his 
face,  and  he  exclaimed : 


Battery  D  238  123 

"'But  who  in  hell  gave  them  the  order  to  fire. 
Range  and  everything  correct,  too.  I  know  I 
didn't.  Wilson,  did  I  give  you  any  order  for  the 
Battery  to  open  up?  Of  course,  I  didn't,  did  I?' 

"I  answered  very  emphatically,  'No,  sir,  you 

gave  no  command.     Nothing  went  through  this 

post.     I  am  absolutely  certain  on  that  point,  sir.' 

"Of  course  nothing  went  through,'  he  replied. 

Then  his  face  fell,  and  he  muttered  out  loud: 

'"But,  by  Jove,  wait  till  Old  Pepper  gets  wind 
of  this.  There'll  be  fur  flying.1 

"Just  then  Bombadier  Cassell  cut  in  on  the  wire: 

1 '  General 's  compliments  to  Captain  A .  He 

directs  that  officer  and  signaler  report  at  the 
double  to  Brigade  Headquarters  as  soon  as 
relieved.  Relief  is  now  on  the  way/ 

"In  an  undertone  to  me,  'Keep  a  brass  front, 
Wilson,  and  for  God's  sake,  stick.'  I  answered 
with,  'Rely  on  me,  mate/  but  I  was  trembling 
all  over. 

"I  gave  the  General's  message  to  the  Captain, 
and  started  packing  up. 

"The  relief  arrived,  and  as  we  left  the  post  the 
Captain  said: 

"'Now  for  the  fireworks,  and  I  know  they'll 
be  good  and  plenty.'  They  were. 


124  Over  the  Top 

"When  we  arrived  at  the  gun  pits,  the  Battery 
Commander,  the  Sergeant-Major,  and  Cassell 
were  waiting  for  us.  We  fell  in  line  and  the  funeral 
march  to  Brigade  Headquarters  started. 

"Arriving  at  Headquarters  the  Battery  Com- 
mander was  the  first  to  be  interviewed.  This  was 
behind  closed  doors.  From  the  roaring  and 
explosions  of  Old  Pepper  it  sounded  as  if  raw 
meat  was  being  thrown  to  the  lions.  Cassell, 
later,  described  it  as  sounding  like  a  bombing 
raid.  In  about  two  minutes  the  officer  reappeared. 
The  sweat  was  pouring  from  his  forehead,  and 
his  face  was  the  color  of  a  beet.  He  was  speech- 
less. As  he  passed  the  Captain  he  jerked  his 
thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  lion's  den  and  went 
out.  Then  the  Captain  went  in,  and  the  lions 
were  once  again  fed.  The  Captain  stayed  about 
twenty  minutes  and  came  out.  I  couldn't  see 
his  face,  but  the  droop  in  his  shoulders  was 
enough.  He  looked  like  a  wet  hen. 

"The  door  of  the  General's  room  opened,  and 
Old  Pepper  stood  in  the  doorway.  With  a  roar 
he  shouted: 

'"Which  one  of  you  is  Cassell?  Damn  me, 
get  your  heels  together  when  I  speak!  Come  in 
here!' 


Battery  D  258  125 

"Cassell  started  to  say,  'Yes,  sir.' 

"But  Old  Pepper  roared,  'Shut  up!' 

"Cassell  came  out  in  five  minutes.  He  said 
nothing,  but  as  he  passed  me,  he  put  his  tongue 
into  his  cheek  and  winked,  then  turning  to  the 
closed  door,  he  stuck  his  thumb  to  his  nose  and 
left. 

"Then  the  Sergeant-Major's  turn  came.  He 
didn't  come  out  our  way.  Judging  by  the  roar- 
ing, Old  Pepper  must  have  eaten  him. 

"When  the  door  opened,  and  the  General 
beckoned  to  me,  my  knees  started  to  play  Home, 
Sweet  Home  against  each  other. 

"My  interview  was  very  short. 

"Old  Pepper  glared  at  me  when  I  entered,  and 
then  let  loose. 

"Of  course  you  don't  know  anything  about  it. 
You're  just  like  the  rest.  Ought  to  have  a  nursing 
bottle  around  your  neck,  and  a  nipple  in  your 
teeth.  Soldiers,  by  gad,  you  turn  my  stomach 
to  look  at  you.  Win  this  war,  when  England 
sends  out  such  samples  as  I  have  in  my  Brigade! 
Not  likely!  Now,  sir,  tell  me  "what  you  don't 
know  about  this  affair.  Speak  up,  out  with  it. 
Don't  be  gaping  at  me  like  a  fish.  Spit  it 
out.' 


126  Over  the  Top 

"I  stammered,  'Sir,  I  know  absolutely  nothing.' 

"That's  easy  to  see,'  he  roared;  'that  stupid 

face  tells  me  that.     Shut  up.     Get  out;  but  I 

think  you  are  a  damned  liar  just  the  same.    Back 

to  your  battery/ 

"I  saluted  and  made  my  exit. 

''That  night  the  Captain  sent  for  us.  With 
fear  and  trembling  we  went  to  his  dugout.  He  was 
alone.  After  saluting,  we  stood  at  attention  in 
front  of  him  and  waited.  His  say  was  short. 

"Don't  you  two  ever  get  it  into  your  heads 
that  Morse  is  a  dead  language.  I've  known  it  for 
years.  The  two  of  you  had  better  get  rid  of  that 
nervous  habit  of  tapping  transmitters;  it's  danger- 
ous. That's  all.' 

"We  saluted,  and  were  just  going  out  the  door 
of  the  dugout  when  the  Captain  called  us  back, 
and  said : 

'"Smoke  Goldflakes?  Yes?  Well  there  are 
two  tins  of  them  on  my  table.  Go  back  to  the 
battery,  and  keep  your  tongues  between  your 
teeth.  Understand?' 

"We  understood. 

"For  five  weeks  afterwards  our  battery  did 
nothing  but  extra  fatigues.  We  were  satisfied 
and  so  were  the  men.  It  was  worth  it  to  put  one 


Battery  D  238  127 

over  on  Old  Pepper,  to  say  nothing  of  the  injury 
caused  to  Fritz's  feelings." 

When  Wilson  had  finished  his  story  I  looked  up, 
and  the  dugout  was  jammed.  An  artillery  Cap- 
tain and  two  officers  had  also  entered  and  stayed 
for  the  finish.  Wilson  spat  out  an  enormous  quid 
of  tobacco,  looked  up,  saw  the  Captain,  and  got 
as  red  as  a  carnation.  The  Captain  smiled  and 
left.  Wilson  whispered  to  me : 

"Blime  me,  Yank,  I  see  where  I  click  for  cruci- 
fixion. That  Captain  is  the  same  one  that 
chucked  us  the  Goldflakes  in  his  dugout  and  here 
I  have  been  'chucking  me  weight  about  in  his 
hearing."' 

Wilson  never  clicked  his  crucifixion. 

Quite  a  contrast  to  Wilson  was  another  charac- 
ter in  our  Brigade  named  Scott,  we  called  him 
"Old  Scotty"  on  account  of  his  age.  He  was 
fifty-seven,  although  looking  forty.  ' '  Old  Scotty  " 
had  been  born  in  the  Northwest  and  had  served 
with  the  Northwest  Mounted  Police.  He  was  a 
typical  cow-puncher  and  Indian  fighter  and  was  a 
dead  shot  with  the  rifle,  and  took  no  pains  to 
disguise  this  fact  from  us.  He  used  to  take  care 
of  his  rifle  as  if  it  were  a  baby.  In  his  spare 
moments  you  could  always  see  him  cleaning  it  or 


128  Over  the  Top 

polishing  the  stock.  Woe  betide  the  man,  who 
by  mistake,  happened  to  get  hold  of  this  rifle;  he 
soon  found  out  his  error.  Scott  was  as  deaf  as  a 
mule,  and  it  was  amusing  at  parade  to  watch  him 
in  the  manual  of  arms,  slyly  glancing  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye  at  the  man  next  to  him  to  see 
what  the  order  was.  How  he  passed  the  doctor 
was  a  mystery  to  us,  he  must  have  bluffed  his 
way  through,  because  he  certainly  was  indepen- 
dent. Beside  him  the  Fourth  of  July  looked  like 
Good  Friday.  He  wore  at  the  time  a  large 
sombrero,  had  a  Mexican  stock  saddle  over  his 
shoulder,  a  lariat  on  his  arm,  and  a  "forty-five" 
hanging  from  his  hip.  Dumping  this  paraphernalia 
on  the  floor  he  went  up  to  the  recruiting  officer 
and  shouted:  "I'm  from  America,  west  of  the 
Rockies,  and  want  to  join  your  damned  army. 
I've  got  no  use  for  a  German  and  can  shoot  some. 
At  Scotland  Yard  they  turned  me  down ;  said  I  was 
deaf  and  so  I  am.  I  don't  hanker  to  ship  in  with  a 
damned  mud  crunching  outfit,  but  the  cavalry's 
full,  so  I  guess  this  regiment's  better  than  none,  so 
trot  out  your  papers  and  I'll  sign  'em."  He  told 
them  he  was  forty  and  slipped  by.  I  was  on  recruit- 
ing service  at  the  time  he  applied  for  enlistment. 
It  was  Old  Scotty's  great  ambition  to  be  a 


Battery  D  238  129 

sniper  or  "body  snatcher"  as  Mr.  Atkins  calls  it. 
The  day  that  he  was  detailed  as  Brigade  Sniper, 
he  celebrated  his  appointment  by  blowing  the 
whole  platoon  to  fags. 

Being  a  Yank,  Old  Scotty  took  a  liking  to  me 
and  used  to  spin  some  great  yarns  about  the 
plains,  and  the  whole  platoon  would  drink  these 
in  and  ask  for  more.  Ananias  was  a  rookie 
compared  with  him. 

The  ex-plainsman  and  discipline  could  not  agree, 
but  the  officers  all  liked  him,  even  if  he  was  hard 
to  manage,  so  when  he  was  detailed  as  a  sniper, 
a  sigh  of  relief  went  up  from  the  officers'  mess. 

Old  Scotty  had  the  freedom  of  the  Brigade. 
He  used  to  draw  two  or  three  days'  rations  and 
disappear  with  his  glass,  range  finder,  and  rifle, 
and  we  would  see  or  hear  no  more  of  him,  until 
suddenly  he  would  reappear  with  a  couple  of 
notches  added  to  those  already  on  the  butt  of  his 
rifle.  Every  time  he  got  a  German  it  meant 
another  notch.  He  was  proud  of  these  notches. 

But  after  a  few  months  Father  Rheumatism 
got  him  and  he  was  sent  to  Blighty;  the  air  in  the 
wake  of  his  stretcher  was  blue  with  curses.  Old 
Scotty  surely  could  swear;  some  of  his  outbursts 
actually  burned  you. 


130  Over  the  Top 

No  doubt,  at  this  writing  he  is  "somewhere  in 
Blighty"  pussy  footing  it  on  a  bridge  or  along  the 
wall  of  some  munition  plant  with  the  "G.  R." 
or  Home  Defence  Corps. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

OUT  IN  FRONT 

A  FTER  tea,  Lieutenant  Stores  of  our  section 
**  came  into  the  dugout  and  informed  me  that 
I  was  "for"  a  reconnoitering  patrol  and  would 
carry  six  Mills  bombs.. 

At  1 1 .30  that  night  twelve  men,  our  Lieutenant, 
and  myself  went  out  in  front  on  a  patrol  in  No 
Man's  Land. 

We  cruised  around  in  the  dark  for  about  two 
hours,  just  knocking  about  looking  for  trouble,  on 
the  lookout  for  Boche  working  parties  to  see  what 
they  were  doing. 

Around  two  in  the  morning  we  were  carefully 
picking  our  way,  about  thirty  yards  in  front  of  the 
German  barbed  wire,  when  we  walked  into  a  Boche 
covering  party  nearly  thirty  strong.  Then  the 
music  started,  the  fiddler  rendered  his  bill,  and  we 
paid. 

Fighting  in  the  dark  with  a  bayonet  is  not  very 


132  Over  the  Top 

pleasant.  The  Germans  took  it  on  the  run,  but 
our  officer  was  no  novice  at  the  game  and  didn't 
follow  them.  He  gave  the  order  "down  on  the 
ground,  hug  it  close." 

Just  in  time,  too,  because  a  volley  skimmed 
over  our  heads.  Then  in  low  tones  we  were  told 
to  separate  and  crawl  back  to  our  trenches,  each 
man  on  his  own. 

We  could  see  the  flashes  of  their  rifles  in  the 
darkness,  but  the  bullets  were  going  over  our 
heads. 

We  lost  three  men  killed  and  one  wounded  in 
the  arm.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  our  officers'  quick 
thinking  the  whole  patrol  would  have  probably 
been  wiped  out. 

After  about  twenty  minutes'  wait  we  went  out 
again  and  discovered  that  the  Germans  had  a  wir- 
ing party  working  on  their  barbed  wire.  We 
returned  to  our  trenches  unobserved  with  the 
information  and  our  machine  guns  immediately 
got  busy. 

The  next  night  four  men  were  sent  out  to  go  over 
and  examine  the  German  barbed  wire  and  see  if 
they  had  cut  lanes  through  it;  if  so,  this  presaged 
an  early  morning  attack  on  our  trenches. 

Of  course,  I  had  to  be  one  of  the  four  selected 


Out  in  Front  133 

for  the  job.  It  was  just  like  sending  a  fellow  to 
the  undertaker's  to  order  his  own  coffin. 

At  ten  o'clock  we  started  out,  armed  with 
three  bombs,  a  bayonet,  and  revolver.  After 
getting  into  No  Man's  Land  we  separated.  Crawl- 
ing four  or  five  feet  at  a  time,  ducking  star  shells, 
with  strays  cracking  over  head,  I  reached  their 
v/ire.  I  scouted  along  this  inch  by  inch,  scarcely 
breathing.  I  could  hear  them  talking  in  their 
trench,  my  heart  was  pounding  against  my  ribs. 
One  false  move  or  the  least  noise  from  me  meant 
discovery  and  almost  certain  death. 

After  covering  my  sector  I  quietly  crawled 
back.  I  had  gotten  about  half-way,  when  I 
noticed  that  my  revolver  was  missing.  It  was 
pitch  dark.  I  turned  about  to  see  if  I  could  find 
it ;  it  couldn't  be  far  away,  because  about  three  or 
four  minutes  previously  I  had  felt  the  butt  in  the 
holster.  I  crawled  around  in  circles  and  at  last 
found  it,  then  started  on  my  way  back  to  our 
trenches,  as  I  thought. 

Pretty  soon  I  reached  barbed  wire,  and  was  just 
going  to  give  the  password,  when  something  told 
me  not  to.  I  put  out  my  hand  and  touched  one  of 
the  barbed  wire  stakes.  It  was  iron.  The  British 
are  of  wood,  while  the  German  are  iron.  My 


134  Over  the  Top 

heart  stopped  beating;  by  mistake  I  had  crawled 
back  to  the  German  lines. 

I  turned  slowly  about  and  my  tunic  caught  on 
the  wire  and  made  a  loud  ripping  noise. 

A  sharp  challenge  rang  out.  I  sprang  to  my 
feet,  ducking  low,  and  ran  madly  back  toward  our 
lines.  The  Germans  started  firing.  The  bullets 
were  biting  all  around  me,  when  bang!  I  ran 
smash  into  our  wire,  and  a  sharp  challenge  '"Alt, 
who  comes  there  ?"  rang  out.  I  gasped  out  the 
password  and  groping  my  way  through  the  lane  in 
the  wire,  tearing  my  hands  and  uniform,  I  tumbled 
into  our  trench  and  was  safe,  but  I  was  a  nervous 
wreck  for  an  hour,  until  a  drink  of  rum  brought 
me  round. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

\ 

STAGED  UNDER  FIRE 

HTHREE  days  after  the  incident  just  related  our 
*  Company  was  relieved  from  the  front  line  and 
carried  out.  We  stayed  in  reserve  billets  for  about 
two  weeks  when  we  received  the  welcome  news 
that  our  division  would  go  back  of  the  line  "to 
rest  billets."  We  would  remain  in  these  billets 
for  at  least  two  months,  this  in  order  to  be  restored 
to  our  full  strength  by  drafts  of  recruits  from 
Blighty. 

Everyone  was  happy  and  contented  at  these 
tidings;  all  you  could  hear  around  the  billets  was 
whistling  and  singing.  The  day  after  the  receipt 
of  the  order  we  hiked  for  five  days,  making  an 
average  of  about  twelve  kilos  per  day  until  we 
arrived  at  the  small  town  of  O* . 

It  took  us  about  three  days  to  get  settled  and 
from  then  on  our  cushy  time  started.  We  would 
parade  from  8.45  in  the  morning  until  12  noon. 

135 


136  Over  the  Top 

Then  except  for  an  occasional  billet  or  brigade 
guard  we  were  on  our  own.  For  the  first  four  or 
five  afternoons  I  spent  my  time  in  bringing  up  to 
date  my  neglected  correspondence. 

Tommy  loves  to  be  amused,  and  being  a  Yank, 
they  turned  to  me  for  something  new  in  this  line. 
I  taught  them  how  to  pitch  horseshoes,  and  this 
game  made  a  great  hit  for  about  ten  days.  Then 
Tommy  turned  to  America  for  a  new  diversion.  I 
was  up  in  the  air  until  a  happy  thought  came  to 
me.  Why  not  write  a  sketch  and  break  Tommy 
in  as  an  actor? 

One  evening  after  " Lights  out,"  when  you  are 
not  supposed  to  talk,  I  imparted  my  scheme  in 
whispers  to  the  section.  They  eagerly  accepted 
the  idea  of  forming  a  Stock  Company  and  could 
hardly  wait  until  the  morning  for  further  details. 

After  parade,  the  next  afternoon  I  was  almost 
mobbed.  Everyone  in  the  section  wanted  a  part 
in  the  proposed  sketch.  When  I  informed  them 
that  it  would  take  at  least  ten  days  of  hard  work 
to  write  the  plot,  they  were  bitterly  disappointed. 
I  immediately  got  busy,  made  a  desk  out  of  biscuit 
tins  in  the  corner  of  the  billet,'  and  put  up  a  sign 
"Empey  &  Wallace  Theatrical  Co."  About 
twenty  of  the  section,  upon  reading  this  sign,  im- 


Staged  under  Fire  137 

mediately  applied  for  the  position  of  office  boy. 
I  accepted  the  twenty  applicants,  and  sent  them 
on  scouting  parties  throughout  the  deserted  French 
village.  These  parties  were  to  search  all  the 
attics  for  discarded  civilian  clothes,  and  any- 
thing that  we  could  use  in  the  props  of  our  pro- 
posed Company. 

About  five  that  night  they  returned  covered  with 
grime  and  dust,  but  loaded  down  with  a  miscel- 
laneous assortment  of  everything  under  the  sun. 
They  must  have  thought  that  I  was  going  to  start 
a  department  store,  judging  from  the  different 
things  they  brought  back  from  their  pillage. 

After  eight  days'  constant  writing  I  completed  a 
two-act  farce  comedy  which  I  called  The  Dia- 
mond Palace  Saloon.  Upon  the  suggestion  of 
one  of  the  boys  in  the  section  I  sent  a  proof  of  the 
program  to  a  printing  house  in  London.  Then  I 
assigned  the  different  parts  and  started  rehearsing. 
David  Belasco  would  have  thrown  up  his  hands  in 
despair  at  the  material  which  I  had  to  use.  Just 
imagine  trying  to  teach  a  Tommy,  with  a  strong 
cockney  accent,  to  impersonate  a  Bowery  Tough 
or  a  Southern  Negro. 

Adjacent  to  our  billet  was  an  open  field.  We  got 
busy  at  one  end  of  it  and  constructed  a  stage.  We 


138  Over  the  Top 

secured  the  lumber  for  the  stage  by  demolishing 
an  old  wooden  shack  in  the  rear  of  our  billet. 

The  first  scene  was  supposed  to  represent  a 
street  on  the  Bowery  in  New  York.  While  the 
scene  of  the  second  act  was  the  interior  of  the 
Diamond  Palace  Saloon,  also  on  the  Bowery. 

In  the  play  I  took  the  part  of  Abe  Switch,  a 
farmer,  who  had  come  from  Pumpkinville  Center, 
Tennessee,  to  make  his  first  visit  to  New  York. 

In  the  first  scene  Abe  Switch  meets  the  proprie- 
tor of  the  Diamond  Palace  Saloon,  a  ram. -hackle 
affair  which  to  the  owner  was  a  financial  loss. 

The  proprietor's  name  was  Tom  Twistem,  his 
bartender  being  named  Fillem  Up. 

After  meeting  Abe,  Tom  and  Fillem  Up  per- 
suaded him  to  buy  the  place,  praising  it  to  the 
skies  and  telling  wondrous  tales  of  the  money  taken 
over  the  bar. 

While  they  are  talking,  an  old  Jew  named  Ikey 
Cohenstein  comes  along,  and  Abe  engages  him  for 
cashier.  After  engaging  Ikey  they  meet  an  old 
Southern  Negro  called  Sambo,  and  upon  the  sug- 
gestion of  Ikey  he  is  engaged  as  porter.  Then  the 
three  of  them,  arm  in  arm,  leave  to  take  possession 
of  this  wonderful  palace  which  Abe  had  just  paid 
$6,000  for.  (Curtain.) 


The 

KING  GEORGE  V. 
THEATRE 

(Erected  1916) 

Situated  Corner  of  Sand  Bag  Terrace  and 
Ammo  Street* 

— .       ^^rN%^-%^s^v,-^N-^-J>^x«^^S*^^,      -     _.  -  -  ^- 

Programme 

*N*v«/V%/^'VXS<s<^%%/%v»XXv'W»>\/'><**\XN*^AV»«»/vX 

Under   Management   of  Empey   and  Wallace* 


NOTE. — The  Management  warns  all  patrons  of  this 
Theatre  that  they  will  not  be  responsible  Tor 
injuries  received  from  the  unauthorized  entrance 
of  stray  shells,  "  whizz-bangs,"  or  rifle  bullets. 


Programmes   Printed    by    Everett* 


Executive  Staff. 

A.  G.  Empcy  ...         ...         Producer  and  Playwright 

Jack  Wallace          Manager 

Richard  Turpiri «. Cashier 

George  Parsons      Stage  Manager 

Frederick  Houghton          Property  Man 

William  Everett     Electrician 

William  Guilford Carpenter 

Sydney  Impey        Booking  Office 

John  Foxcroft  ...                                          Head  Usher 


NOTB. 

The  Management  requests  that  patrons  will  remove  their  steel  helmets. 
in  case  of  an  attack,  keep  your  seats,  don't  interrupt  the  performance 
If  you  don't  like  the  show,  leave, -don't  put  on  your  gas  helmets. 
Patrons  will  not  bring  live  bombs  into  tnis  theatre. 

No  one  allowed  past  the  barbed  wire  in  front  of  the  footlights  as  it  is 
the  actors'  only  protection.  No  firing  at  actors. 

It  is  earnestly  requested  that  any  incivility  or  inattention  towards 
patrons  from  the  employees  of  this  Theatre  be  reported  at  the 
Booking  Office,  so  that  the  offender  may  be  shot  at  sunrise  (if  he 
gets  up  in  time).  ^ 

Ladies  Room  in  rear  of  first  balcony.    Matron  in  attendance. 

Lounging  and  Smoking  Room  for  gentlemen  in  the  shell-proof  cellar. 
Identification  disc  must  be  shown  to  prove  you  are  a  gentleman. 

Gentlemen  are  requested  not  to  swear  aloud  at  actors,  the  show,  play- 
wright or  orchestra.  It  is  not  their  fault  that  they  are  rotten,  they 
know  it  as  well  as  you  do. 

No  tins  of  Bully  Beef  or  Maconochie  Rations  accepted  at  the  Booking 
Office  in  payment  for  tickets. 


Caste  of  Characters 

(as  they  appear}. 

TOM  TWISTEM  (gang  leader  and  wise  guy,  owner  and  proprietor  of  the 
Diamond  Palace  Saloon,  out  for  the  dough)  ...  JACK  WALLACE 

FILLEM  UP  (bar  tender  of  the  Diamond  Palace  Saloon,  an  ex-burglar, 
a  ticket-of-leave  man)  ...  ...  .,.  WILFRED  ISOM 

SAMBO  (a  negro  from  Virginia,  always  broke  and  hungry,  joined  a 
minstrel  show  which  went  broke  and  left  him  stranded  in  New 
York)  ...  _  EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

IKEY  COHENS*TEIN  (an  East  Side  Jew,  New  York  City,  Dealer  in 
Second  hand  Clothes  and  a  Moneylender)  CHARLES  HONNEY 

ABB  SWITCH  (a  Farmer,  Postmaster,  Constable,  and  owner  of  the  only 

shop  in  Pumpkinville   Center,  Tennessee,  U.S.A.     First   trip  to 

v       New  York  City.   Left  his  wife,  Miranda,  at  home)  A.  G.  EMPEY 

WEARY  WILLJE  (a  bum,  never  works  and  always  drunk)  A.  G.  HALL 

SID  COCAINE  (a  morphine  fiend,  a  man  of  few  words) 

WILLIAM  YERRELL 

«  KID"  PAPES  (a  tough  newsboy)          ...        CHARLES  DALTON 

*'  BROADWAY  "  KATE  (Tom  Twistem's  lady  friend,  clever  at  getting  the 
dough)  ...  MADAME  ZARA 

SING  LEE  SUNG  (a  Chinese  Laundryman)    WILLIAM  YERRELL 

ALKALI  IKE  (a  Texas  Cowboy  from  the  Bad  Lands,  Texas,  expert 
revolver  shot,  quick  on  the  draw  and  shoots  from  the  hip) 

A.  G.  HALL 

CUSTOMERS,  SOLDIERS,  ETC. 


Messrs.  EMPEY  and  WALLACE 

PRESENT 

The  Rip  Roaring,  Side  Splitting, 'Farce  Comedy 

ENTITLED 


e  f|iamon&  jtafaee  §afoon 


A  TRAVESTY  ON  NEW  YORK   LIFE, 
Acted  by  the  All-Star  Caste  of  the 

167th  BRIGADE  MACHINE  GUN  COMPANY  (Suicide  Club), 

Section  No.  I. 

Written,  rehearsed  and  produced  under  fir t  during 
the  European  War,  France,  1916. 


Act  I. 

SCBNB  I.    Street  Scene  on  the  Bowery,  New  York  City. 

TIME.    Any  old  time. 
NOTE.    Five  minutes  interval  to  enable  actors  to  get  a  drink. 

Act  II. 

SCENE  I.  (one  scene  is  sufficient)   Interior  of  Diamond  Palace  Saloon, 

corner  of  3rd  Avenue  and  i2th  Street,  New  York  City. 

TIME,    Same  day  as  Act  I. 


Musical  ^Programme 

—    Rendered  by  the  Trench  Orchestra.    «•• 
I.  A.  M.  ROTTEN        ...        Leader. 

Overture         "  Hymn  of  Hate  " 

Selection         ...         ...         ...         ...         "  How  we  Love  der  Kaiser " 

Intermezzo     "Stick  it  into  a  Hun  " 

March  »        ".On  to  Berlin " 

Selection         "Poison  Gas" 

—     GOD    SAVE    THE    KINO.    — 

J5>    FINIS,    fl 


Staged  under  Fire  139 

In  the  second  act  the  curtain  rises  on  the  interior 
of  the  Diamond  Palace  Saloon,  and  the  audience 
gets  its  first  shock.  The  saloon  looks  like  a  pig- 
pen, two  tramps  lying  drunk  on  the  floor,  and  the 
bartender  in  a  dirty  shirt  with  his  sleeves  rolled 
up,  asleep  with  his  head  on  the  bar. 

Enter  Abe,  Sambo,  and  Ikey,  and  the  fun  com- 
mences. 

One  of  the  characters  in  the  second  act  was 
named  Broadway  Kate,  and  I  had  an  awful  job 
to  break  in  one  of  the  Tommies  to  act  and  talk  like 
a  woman. 

Another  character  was  Alkali  Ike,  an  Arizona 
cow-boy,  who  just  before  the  close  of  the  play 
comes  into  the  saloon  and  wrecks  it  with  his 
revolver. 

We  had  eleven  three-hour  rehearsals  before  I 
thought  it  advisable  to  present  the  sketch  to  the 
public. 

The  whole  Brigade  was  crazy  to  witness  the  first 
performance.  This  performance  was  scheduled  for 
Friday  night  and  everyone  was  full  of  anticipation; 
when  bang !  orders  came  through  that  the  Brigade 
would  move  at  two  that  afternoon.  Cursing  and 
blinding  was  the  order  of  things  upon  the  receipt 
of  this  order,  but  we  moved. 


140  Over  the  Top 

That  night  we  reached  the  little  village  of  S 

and  again  went  into  rest  billets.  We  were  to  be 
there  two  weeks.  Our  Company  immediately  got 
busy  and  scoured  the  village  for  a  suitable  place 
in  which  to  present  our  production.  Then  we 
received  another  shock. 

A  rival  company  was  already  established  in  the 
village.  They  called  themselves  "The  Bow 
Bells,"  and  put  on  a  sketch  entitled  Blighty — What 
Hopes?  They  were  the  Divisional  Concert 
Party. 

We  hoped  they  all  would  be  soon  in  Blighty  to 
give  us  a  chance. 

This  company  charged  an  admission  of  a  franc 
per  head,  and  that  night  our  company  went  en 
masse  to  see  their  performance.  It  really  was 
good. 

I  had  a  sinking  sensation  when  I  thought  of 
running  my  sketch  in  opposition  to  it. 

In  one  of  their  scenes  they  had  a  soubrette  called 
Flossie.  The  soldier  that  took  this  part  was  clever 
and  made  a  fine  appearing  and  chic  girl.  We 
immediately  fell  in  love  with  her  until  two  days 
after,  while  we  were  on  a  march,  we  passed  Flossie 
with  her  sleeves  rolled  up  and  the  sweat  pouring 
from  her  face  unloading  shells  from  a  motor  lorry. 


Staged  under  Fire  141 

As  our  section  passed  her  I  yelled  out:  "Hello, 
Flossie,  Blighty — What  Hopes  ? ' '  Her  reply  made 
our  love  die  out  instantly. 

"Ah,  go  to  hell!" 

This  brought  quite  a  laugh  from  the  marching 
column  directed  at  me,  and  I  instantly  made  up  my 
mind  that  our  sketch  should  immediately  run  in 
opposition  to  Blighty — What  Hopes? 

When  we  returned  to  our  billet  from  the  march, 
Curley  Wallace,  my  theatrical  partner,  came  run- 
ning over  to  me  and  said  he  had  found  a  swanky 
place  in  which  to  produce  our  show. 

After  taking  off  my  equipment,  and  followed  by 
the  rest  of  the  section,  I  went  over  to  the  building 
he  had  picked  out.  It  was  a  monstrous  barn  with 
a  platform  at  one  end  which  would  make  an  ideal 
stage.  The  section  got  right  on  the  job,  and  before 
night  had  that  place  rigged  out  in  apple-pie  order. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday  and  after  church 
parade  we  put  all  our  time  on  a  dress  rehearsal, 
and  it  went  fine. 

I  made  four  or  five  large  signs  announcing  that 
our  company  would  open  up  that  evening  at  the 
King  George  the  Fifth  Theatre,  on  the  corner 
of  Ammo  Street  and  Sandbag  Terrace.  General 
admission  was  one  half  franc.  First  ten  rows  in  or- 


142  Over  the  Top 

chestra  one  franc,  and  boxes  two  francs.  By  this 
time  our  printed  programs  had  returned  from 
London,  and  I  further  announced  that  on  the  night 
of  the  first  performance  a  program  would  be  given 
free  of  charge  to  men  holding  tickets  costing  a 
franc  or  over. 

We  had  an  orchestra  of  seven  men  and  seven 
different  instruments.  This  orchestra  was  excel- 
lent, while  they  were  not  playing. 

The  performance  was  scheduled  to  start  at  6  P.M. 

At  5.15  there  was  a  mob  in  front  of  our  one 
entrance  and  it  looked  like  a  big  night.  We  had 
two  boxes  each  accommodating  four  people,  and 
these  we  immediately  sold  out.  Then  a  brilliant 
idea  came  to  Ikey  Cohenstein.  Why  not  use  the 
rafters  overhead,  call  them  boxes,  and  charge  two 
francs  for  a  seat  on  them  ?  The  only  difficulty  was 
how  were  the  men  to  reach  these  boxes,  but  to 
Ikey  this  was  a  mere  detail. 

He  got  long  ropes  and  tied  one  end  around  each 
rafter  and  then  tied  a  lot  of  knots  in  the  ropes. 
These  ropes  would  take  the  place  of  stairways. 

We  figured  out  that  the  rafters  would  seat  about 
forty  men  and  sold  that  number  of  tickets  accord- 
ingly. 

When  the  ticket-holders  for  the  boxes  got  a 


Staged  under  Fire  143 

glimpse  of  the  rafters  and  were  informed  that  they 
had  to  use  the  rope  stairway,  there  was  a  howl  of 
indignation,  but  we  had  their  money  and  told  them 
that  if  they  did  not  like  it  they  could  write  to  the 
management  later  and  their  money  would  be  re- 
funded ;  but  under  these  conditions  they  would  not 
be  allowed  to  witness  the  performance  that  night. 

After  a  little  grousing  they  accepted  the  situation 
with  the  promise  that  if  the  show  was  rotten  they 
certainly  would  let  us  know  about  it  during  the 
performance. 

Everything  went  lovely  and  it  was  a  howling 
success,  until  Alkali  Ike  appeared  on  the  scene 
with  his  revolver  loaded  with  blank  cartridges. 
Behind  the  bar  on  a  shelf  was  a  long  line  of  bottles. 
Alkali  Ike  was  supposed  to  start  on  the  left  of  this 
line  and  break  six  of  the  bottles  by  firing  at  them 
with  his  revolver.  Behind  these  bottles  a  piece 
of  painted  canvas  was  supposed  to  represent  the 
back  of  the  bar,  at  each  shot  from  Alkali's  pistol 
a  man  behind  the  scenes  would  hit  one  of  the 
bottles  with  his  entrenching  tool  handle  and  smash 
it,  to  give  the  impression  that  Alkali  was  a  good 
shot. 

Alkali  Ike  started  in  and  aimed  at  the  right  of 
the  line  of  bottles  instead  of  the  left,  and  the  poor 


144  Over  the  Top 

boob  behind  the  scenes  started  breaking  the  bottles 
on  the  left,  and  then  the  box-holders  turned  loose  ; 
but  outside  of  this  little  fiasco  the  performance  was 
a  huge  success,  and  we  decided  to  run  it  for  a  week. 
New  troops  were  constantly  coming  through, 
and  for  six  performances  we  had  the  "S.  R.  0." 
sign  suspended  outside. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ON  HIS  OWN 

OF  course  Tommy  cannot  always  be  producing 
plays  under  fire  but  while  in  rest  billets  he 
has  numerous  other  ways  of  amusing  himself.  He 
is  a  great  gambler,  but  never  plays  for  large  stakes. 
Generally,  in  each  Company,  you  will  find  a  regular 
Canfield.  This  man  banks  nearly  all  the  games  of 
chance  and  is  an  undisputed  authority  on  the 
rules  of  gambling.  Whenever  there  is  an  argument 
among  the  Tommies  about  some  uncertain  point 
as  to  whether  Houghton  is  entitled  to  Watkins' 
sixpence,  the  matter  is  taken  to  the  recognized 
authority  and  his  decision  is  final. 

The  two  most  popular  games  are  "Crown  and 
Anchor"  and  "House." 

The  paraphernalia  used  in  * '  Crown  and  Anchor  " 
consists  of  a  piece  of  canvas  two  feet  by  three  feet. 
This  is  divided  into  six  equal  squares.  In  these 
squares  are  painted  a  club,  diamond,  heart,  spade, 
crown,  and  an  anchor,  one  device  to  a  square. 

10  145 


146  Over  the  Top 

There  are  three  dice  used,  each  dice  marked  the 
same  as  the  canvas.  The  banker  sets  up  his  gam- 
bling outfit  in  the  corner  of  a  billet  and  starts  bally- 
hooing  until  a  crowd  of  Tommies  gather  around; 
then  the  game  starts. 

The  Tommies  place  bets  on  the  squares,  the 
crown  or  anchor  being  played  the  most.  The 
banker  then  rolls  his  three  dice  and  collects  or  pays 
out  as  the  case  may  be.  If  you  play  the  crown 
and  one  shows  up  on  the  dice,  you  get  even  money, 
if  two  show  up,  you  receive  two  to  one,  and  if  three, 
three  to  one.  If  the  crown  does  not  appear  and 
you  have  bet  on  it,  you  lose,  and  so  on.  The  per- 
centage for  the  banker  is  large  if  every  square  is 
played,  but  if  the  crowd  is  partial  to,  say  two 
squares,  he  has  to  trust  to  luck.  The  banker 
generally  wins. 

The  game  of  "House"  is  very  popular  also.  It 
takes  two  men  to  run  it.  This  game  consists  of 
numerous  squares  of  cardboard  containing  three 
rows  of  numbers,  five  numbers  to  a  row.  The 
numbers  run  from  one  to  ninety.  Each  card  has 
a  different  combination. 

The  French  estaminets  in  the  villages  are  open 
from  eleven  in  the  morning  until  one  in  the  after- 
noon in  accordance  with  army  orders. 


On  his  Own  147 

After  dinner  the  Tommies  congregate  at  these 
places  to  drink  French  beer  at  a  penny  a  glass  and 
play  "House." 

As  soon  as  the  estaminet  is  sufficiently  crowded 
the  proprietors  of  the  "House  Game"  get  busy  and 
as  they  term  it  "form  a  school. "  This  consists  of 
going  around  and  selling  cards  at  a  franc  each. 
If  they  have  ten  in  the  school,  the  backers  of  the 
game  deduct  two  francs  for  their  trouble  and  the 
winner  gets  eight  francs. 

Then  the  game  starts.  Each  buyer  places  his 
card  before  him  on  the  table,  first  breaking  up 
matches  into  fifteen  pieces. 

One  of  the  backers  of  the  game  has  a  small  cloth 
bag  in  which  are  ninety  cardboard  squares,  each 
with  a  number  printed  thereon,  from  one  to  ninety. 
He  raps  on  the  table  and  cries  out,  "Eyes  down, 
my  lucky  lads. " 

All  noise  ceases  and  everyone  is  attention. 

The  croupier  places  his  hand  in  the  bag  and 
draws  forth  a  numbered  square  and  immediately 
calls  out  the  number.  The  man  who  owns  the 
card  with  that  particular  number  on  it,  covers 
the  square  with  a  match.  The  one  who  covers  the 
fifteen  numbers  on  his  card  first  shouts  "House." 
The  other  backer  immediately  comes  over  to  him 


148  Over  the  Top 

and  verifies  the  card,  by  calling  out  the  numbers 
thereon  to  the  man  with  the  bag.  As  each  number 
is  called  he  picks  it  out  of  the  ones  picked  from  the 
bag  and  says,  " Right/'  If  the  count  is  right  he 
shouts,  "House  correct,  pay  the  lucky  gentleman, 
and  sell  him  a  card  for  the  next  school."  The 
"lucky  gentleman"  generally  buys  one  unless  he 
has  a  Semitic  trace  in  his  veins. 

Then  another  collection  is  made,  a  school  formed, 
and  they  carry  on  with  the  game. 

The  caller-out  has  many  nicknames  for  the 
numbers  such  as  "Kelly's  Eye"  for  one,  "Leg's 
Eleven"  for  eleven,  " Clickety-click "  for  sixty-six, 
or  "Top  of  the  house"  meaning  ninety. 

The  game  is  honest  and  quite  enjoyable.  Some- 
times you  have  fourteen  numbers  on  your  card 
covered  and  you  are  waiting  for  the  fifteenth  to 
be  called.  In  an  imploring  voice  you  call  out, 
"Come  on,  Watkins,  chum,  I'm  sweating  on 
'Kelly's  Eye/" 

Watkins  generally  replies,  "Well  keep  out  of  a 
draught,  you'll  catch  cold." 

Another  game  is  "Pontoon"  played  with  cards; 
it  is  the  same  as  our  "Black  Jack,"  or  "Twenty- 
one." 

A  card  game  called  "Brag"  is  also  popular. 


On  his  Own  149 

Using  a  casino  deck,  the  dealer  deals  each  player 
three  cards.  It  is  similar  to  our  poker,  except  for 
the  fact  that  you  only  use  three  cards  and  cannot 
draw.  The  deck  is  never  shuffled  until  a  man 
shows  three  of  a  kind  or  a  "prile"  as  it  is  called. 
The  value  of  the  hands  are,  high  card,  a  pair,  a  run, 
a  flush  or  three  of  a  kind  or  "prile."  The  limit 
is  generally  a  penny,  so  it  is  hard  to  win  a  fortune. 

The  next  in  popularity  is  a  card  game  called 
"Nap."  It  is  well  named.  Every  time  I  played 
it  I  went  to  sleep. 

Whist  and  Solo  Whist  are  played  by  the  high- 
brows of  the  Company. 

When  the  gamblers  tire  of  all  other  games  they 
try  "Banker  and  Broker." 

I  spent  a  week  trying  to  teach  some  of  the 
Tommies  how  to  play  poker,  but  because  I  won 
thirty-five  francs  they  declared  that  they  didn't 
"Fawncy"  the  game. 

Tommy  plays  few  card  games;  the  general  run 
never  heard  of  poker,  euchre,  seven  up,  or  pinochle. 
They  have  a  game  similar  to  pinochle  called 
"Royal  Bezique, "  but  few  know  how  to  play  it. 

Generally  there  are  two  decks  of  cards  in  a  sec- 
tion, and  in  a  short  time  they  are  so  dog-eared  and 
greasy,  you  can  hardly  tell  the  ace  of  spades  from 


150  Over  the  Top 

the  ace  of  hearts.  The  owners  of  these  decks 
sometimes  condescend  to  lend  them  after  much 
coaxing. 

So  you  see,  Mr.  Atkins  has  his  fun  mixed  in 
with  his  hardships,  and,  contrary  to  popular  belief, 
the  rank  and  file  of  the  British  Army  in  the 
trenches  is  one  big  happy  family.  Now  in  Virginia, 
at  school,  I  was  fed  on  old  McGuffy's  primary 
reader,  which  gave  me  an  opinion  of  an  Englishman 
about  equal  to  a  '76  Minute  Man's  backed  up  by  a 
Sinn  Feiner's.  But  I  found  Tommy  to  be  the  best 
of  mates  and  a  gentleman  through  and  through. 
He  never  thinks  of  knocking  his  officers.  If  one 
makes  a  costly  mistake  and  Tommy  pays  with  his 
blood,  there  is  no  general  condemnation  of  the 
officer.  He  is  just  pitied.  It  is  exactly  the  same 
as  it  was  with  the  Light  Brigade  at  Balaclava,  to 
say  nothing  of  Gallipoli,  Neuve  Chapelle,  and  Loos. 
Personally  I  remember  a  little  incident  where 
twenty  of  us  were  sent  on  a  trench  raid,  only  two 
of  us  returning,  but  I  will  tell  this  story  later  on. 

I  said  it  was  a  big  happy  family,  and  so  it  is,  but 
as  in  all  happy  families,  there  are  servants,  so  in 
the  British  Army  there  are  also  servants,  officers' 
servants,  or  "O.  S. "  as  they  are  termed.  In  the 
American  Army  the  common  name  for  them  is 


Right  Arm  Smashed  by  Shell  (in  Plaster  Cast);  has  been  Told  it 
will  Have  to  be  Amputated. 

Photo  taken  just  after  the  doctor  had  informed  him  that  he  would  lose  his  arm. 

"Lamp  the  grin!" 
Another  captured  Prussian  helmet  on  his  head.     We  have  many. 


On  his  Own  151 

"dog  robbers."  From  a  controversy  in  the  Eng- 
lish papers,  Winston  Churchill  made  the  statement, 
as  far  as  I  can  remember,  that  the  officers'  servants 
in  the  British  forces  totaled  nearly  two  hundred 
thousand.  He  claimed  that  this  removed  two 
hundred  thousand  exceptionally  good  and  well- 
trained  fighters  from  the  actual  firing  line,  claiming 
that  the  officers,  when  selecting  a  man  for  servant's 
duty,  generally  picked  the  man  who  had  been  out 
the  longest  and  knew  the  ropes. 

But  from  my  observation  I  find  that  a  large  per- 
centage of  the  servants  do  go  over  the  top,  but 
behind  the  lines,  they  very  seldom  engage  in 
digging  parties,  fatigues,  parades,  or  drills.  This 
work  is  as  necessary  as  actually  engaging  in  an1 
attack,  therefore  I  think  that  it  would  be  safe  to 
say  that  the  all-round  work  of  the  two  hundred 
thousand  is  about  equal  to  fifty  thousand  men 
who  are  on  straight  military  duties.  In  numerous 
instances,  officers'  servants  hold  the  rank  of  lance- 
corporals  and  they  assume  the  same  duties  and 
authority  of  a  butler.  The  one  stripe  giving  him 
precedence  over  the  other  servants. 

There  are  lots  of  amusing  stories  told  of  "O.  S. " 
One  day  one  of  our  majors  went  into  the  ser- 
vants' billet  and  commenced  "blinding"  at  them, 


152  Over  the  Top 

saying  that  his  horse  had  no  straw,  and  that  he 
personally  knew  that  straw  had  been  issued  for  this 
purpose.  He  called  the  lance-corporal  to  account. 
The  Corporal  answered,  ' '  Blime  me,  sir,  the  straw 
was  issued,  but  there  wasn't  enough  left  over  from 
the  servants'  beds;  in  fact,  we  had  to  use  some  of 
the  'ay  to  'elp  out,  sir." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  servants  dispensed 
with  their  soft  beds  that  particular  night. 

Nevertheless  it  is  not  the  fault  of  the  individual 
officer,  it  is  just  the  survival  of  a  quaint  old  English 
custom.  You  know  an  Englishman  cannot  be 
changed  in  a  day. 

But  the  average  English  officer  is  a  good  sport, 
he  will  sit  on  a  fire  step  and  listen  respectfully  to 
Private  Jones's  theory  of  the  way  the  war  should  be 
conducted.  This  war  is  gradually  crumbling  the 
once  unsurmountable  wall  of  caste. 

You  would  be  convinced  of  this  if  you  could  see 
King  George  go  among  his  men  on  an  inspecting 
tour  under  fire,  or  pause  before  a  little  wooden 
cross  in  some  shell-tossed  field  with  tears  in  his  eyes 
as  he  reads  the  inscription.  And  a  little  later  per- 
haps bend  over  a  wounded  man  on  a  stretcher, 
patting  him  on  the  head. 

More  than  once  in  a  hospital  I  have  seen  a 


On  his  Own  153 

titled  Red  Cross  nurse  fetching  and  carrying  for  a 
wounded  soldier,  perhaps  the  one  who  in  civil  life 
delivered  the  coal  at  her  back  door.  To-day  she 
does  not  shrink  from  lighting  his  fag  or  even 
washing  his  grimy  body. 

Tommy  admires  Albert  of  Belgium  because  he  is 
not  a  pusher  of  men,  he  LEADS  them.  With  him 
it's  not  a  case  of  "take  that  trench!"  it  is  "come 
on  and  we  will  take  it. " 

It  is  amusing  to  notice  the  different  characteris- 
tics of  the  Irish,  Scotch,  and  English  soldiers.  The 
Irish  and  Scotch  are  very  impetuous,  especially 
when  it  comes  to  bayonet  fighting,  while  the 
Englishman,  though  a  trifle  slower,  thoroughly 
does  his  bit;  he  is  more  methodical  and  has  the  grip 
of  a  bulldog  on  a  captured  position.  He  is  slower 
to  think,  that  is  the  reason  why  he  never  knows 
when  he  is  licked. 

Twenty  minutes  before  going  over  the  top  the 
English  Tommy  will  sit  on  the  fire  step  and 
thoroughly  examine  the  mechanism  of  his  rifle 
to  see  that  it  is  in  working  order  and  will  fire 
properly.  After  this  examination  he  is  satisfied 
and  ready  to  meet  the  Boches. 

But  the  Irishman  or  Scotchman  sits  on  the  fire 
step,  his  rifle  with  bayonet  fixed  between  his  knees, 


154  Over  the  Top 

the  butt  of  which  perhaps  is  sinking  into  the  mud, 
— the  bolt  couldn't  be  opened  with  a  team  of  horses 
it  is  so  rusty, — but  he  spits  on  his  sleeve  and  slowly 
polishes  his  bayonet;  when  this  is  done  he  also  is 
ready  to  argue  with  Fritz. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  mention  the  Colonials 
(the  Canadians,  Australians,  and  New  Zealand ers), 
the  whole  world  knows  what  they  have  done  for 
England. 

The  Australian  and  New  Zealander  is  termed  the 
"Anzac, "  taking  the  name  from  the  first  letters 
of  their  official  designation,  Australian  and  New 
Zealand  Army  Corps. 

Tommy  divides  the  German  army  into  three 
classes  according  to  their  fighting  abilities.  They 
rank  as  follows,  Prussians,  Bavarians,  and  Saxons. 

When  up  against  a  Prussian  regiment  it  is  a 
case  of  keep  your  napper  below  the  parapet  and 
duck.  A  bang-bang  all  the  time  and  a  war  is  on. 
The  Bavarians  are  little  better,  but  the  Saxons  are 
fairly  good  sports  and  are  willing  occasionally  to 
behave  as  gentlemen  and  take  it  easy,  but  you 
cannot  trust  any  of  them  overlong. 

At  one  point  of  the  line  the  trenches  were  about 
thirty-two  yards  apart.  This  sounds  horrible, 
but  in  fact  it  was  easy,  because  neither  side  could 


On  his  Own  155 

shell  the  enemy's  front-line  trench  for  fear  shells 
would  drop  into  their  own.  This  eliminated 
artillery  fire. 

In  these  trenches  when  up  against  the  Prussians 
and  Bavarians,  Tommy  had  a  hot  time  of  it,  but 
when  the  Saxons  "took  over"  it  was  a  picnic,  they 
would  yell  across  that  they  were  Saxons  and  would 
not  fire.  Both  sides  would  sit  on  the  parapet  and 
carry  on  a  conversation.  This  generally  consisted 
of  Tommy  telling  them  how  much  he  loved  the 
Kaiser  while  the  Saxons  informed  Tommy  that 
King  George  was  a  particular  friend  of  theirs  and 
hoped  that  he  was  doing  nicely. 

When  the  Saxons  were  to  be  relieved  by  Prus- 
sians or  Bavarians,  they  would  yell  this  informa- 
tion across  No  Man's  Land  and  Tommy  would 
immediately  tumble  into  his  trench  and  keep  his 
head  down. 

If  an  English  regiment  was  to  be  relieved  by  the 
wild  Irish,  Tommy  would  tell  the  Saxons,  and 
immediately  a  volley  of  "Donner  und  Blitzen's" 
could  be  heard,  and  it  was  Fritz's  turn  to  get  a 
crick  in  his  back  from  stooping,  and  the  people  in 
Berlin  would  close  their  windows. 

Usually  when  an  Irishman  takes  over  a  trench, 
just  before  "stand  down"  in  the  morning,  he 


156  Over  the  Top 

sticks  his  rifle  over  the  top  aimed  in  the  direction  of 
Berlin  and  engages  in  what  is  known  as  the  "mad 
minute. "  This  consists  of  firing  fifteen  shots  in  a 
minute.  He  is  not  aiming  at  anything  in  particu- 
lar,— just  sends  over  each  shot  with  a  prayer, 
hoping  that  one  of  his  strays  will  get  some  poor 
unsuspecting  Fritz  in  the  napper  hundreds  of 
yards  behind  the  lines.  It  generally  does;  that's 
the  reason  the  Boches  hate  the  man  from  Erin's 
Isle. 

The  Saxons,  though  better  than  the  Prussians 
and  Bavarians,  have  a  nasty  trait  of  treachery  in 
their  make-up. 

At  one  point  of  the  line  where  the  trenches  were 
very  close,  a  stake  was  driven  into  the  ground  mid- 
way between  the  hostile  lines.  At  night  when  it 
was  his  turn,  Tommy  would  crawl  to  this  stake  and 
attach  some  London  papers  to  it,  while  at  the  foot 
he  would  place  tins  of  bully  beef,  fags,  sweets,  and 
other  delicacies  that  he  had  received  from  Blighty 
in  the  ever  looked-for  parcel.  Later  on  Fritz 
would  come  out  and  get  these  luxuries. 

The  next  night  Tommy  would  go  out  to  see  what 
Fritz  had  put  into  his  stocking.  The  donation 
generally  consisted  of  a  paper  from  Berlin,  telling 
who  was  winning  the  war,  some  tinned  sausages, 


On  his  Own  157 

cigars,  and  occasionally  a  little  beer,  but  a  funny 
thing,  Tommy  never  returned  with  the  beer  unless 
it  was  inside  of  him.  His  platoon  got  a  whiff 
of  his  breath  one  night  and  the  offending  Tommy 
lost  his  job. 

One  night  a  young  English  Sergeant  crawled  to 
the  stake  and  as  he  tried  to  detach  the  German 
paper  a  bomb  exploded  and  mangled  him  horribly. 
Fritz  had  set  his  trap  and  gained  another  victim 
which  was  only  one  more  black  mark  against  him 
in  the  book  of  this  war.  From  that  time  on 
diplomatic  relations  were  severed. 

Returning  to  Tommy,  I  think  his  spirit  is  best 
shown  in  the  questions  he  asks.  It  is  never  "who 
is  going  to  win"  but  always  "how  long  will  it 
take?" 


CHAPTER  XX 
"CHATS  WITH  FRITZ" 

\  71  TE  were  swimming  in  money,  from  the  receipts 
of  our  theatrical  venture,  and  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  war,  when  an  order  came  through  that 
our  Brigade  would  again  take  over  their  sector  of 
the  line. 

The  day  that  these  orders  were  issued,  our 
Captain  assembled  the  company  and  asked  for 
volunteers  to  go  to  the  Machine  Gun  School  at  St. 
Omer.  I  volunteered  and  was  accepted. 

Sixteen  men  from  our  brigade  left  for  the  course 
in  machine  gunnery.  This  course  lasted  two 
weeks  and  we  rejoined  our  unit  and  were  assigned 
to  the  Brigade  Machine  Gun  Company.  It  al- 
most broke  my  heart  to  leave  my  company  mates. 

The  gun  we  used  was  the  Vickers,  Light  .303, 
water  cooled. 

I  was  still  a  member  of  the  Suicide  Club,  having 
jumped  from  the  frying  pan  into  the  fire.  I  was 

158 


"Chats  with  Fritz"  159 

assigned  to  Section  i,Gun  No.  2,  and  the  first 
time  "  in  "  took  position  &  the,  iront -line  trench. 

During  the  day  our  gun  would  be  dismounted  on 
the  fire  step  ready  for  instant  use.  We  shared  a 
dugout  with  the  Lewis  gunners,  at  "stand  to"  we 
would  mount  our  gun  on  the  parapet  and  go  on 
watch  beside  it  until  "stand  down"  in  the  morning, 
then  the  gun  would  be  dismounted  and  again 
placed  in  readiness  on  the  fire  step. 

We  did  eight  days  in  the  front-line  trench  with- 
out anything  unusual  happening  outside  of  the 
ordinary  trench  routine.  On  the  night  that  we 
were  to  "carry  out,"  a  bombing  raid  against  the 
German  lines  was  pulled  off.  This  raiding  party 
consisted  of  sixty  company  men,  sixteen  bombers, 
and  four  Lewis  machine  guns  with  their  crews. 

The  raid  took  the  Boches  by  surprise  and  was  a 
complete  success,  the  party  bringing  back  twenty- 
one  prisoners. 

The  Germans  must  have  been  awfully  sore, 
because  they  turned  loose  a  barrage  of  shrapnel, 
with  a  few  "Minnies"  and  "whizz  bangs"  inter- 
mixed. The  shells  were  dropping  into  our  front 
line  like  hailstones. 

To  get  even,  we  could  have  left  the  prisoners  in 
the  fire  trench,  in  charge  of  the  men  on  guard  and 


160  Over  the  Top 

let  them  click  Fritz's  strafein^  but  Tommy  does 
not  treat  prisoners  that  wa^ 

Five  of  them  were  brou^nt  into  my  dugout  and 
turned  over  to  me  so  that  they  would  be  safe  from 
the  German  fire. 

In  the  candlelight,  they  looked  very  much 
shaken,  nerves  gone  and  chalky  faces,  with  the 
exception  of  one,  a  great  big  fellow.  He  looked 
very  much  at  ease.  I  liked  him  from  the  start. 

I  got  out  the  rum  jar  and  gave  each  a  nip  and 
passed  around  some  fags,  the  old  reliable  Wood- 
bines. The  other  prisoners  looked  their  gratitude, 
but  the  big  fellow  said  in  English,  "Thank  you,  sir, 
the  rum  is  excellent  and  I  appreciate  it,  also  your 
kindness. " 

He  told  me  his  name  was  Carl  Schmidt,  of  the 
66th  Bavarian  Light  Infantry;  that  he  had  lived 
six  years  in  New  York  (knew  the  city  better  than 
I  did),  had  been  to  Coney  Island  and  many  of  our 
ball  games.  He  was  a  regular  fan.  I  couldn't 
make  him  believe  that  Hans  Wagner  wasn't  the 
best  ball-player  in  the  world. 

From  New  York  he  had  gone  to  London,  where 
he  worked  as  a  waiter  in  the  Hotel  Russell.  Just 
before  the  war  he  went  home  to  Germany  to  see  his 
parents,  the  war  came  and  he  was  conscripted. 


44  Chats  with  Fritz "  161 

He  told  me  he  was  very-sorry  to  hear  that 
London  was  in  ruins  from  the  Zeppelin  raids.  I 
could  not  convince  him  otherwise,  for  hadn't  he 
seen  moving  pictures  in  one  of  the  German  cities 
of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  in  ruins. 

I  changed  the  subject  because  he  was  so  stub- 
born in  his  belief.  It  was  my  intention  to  try  and 
pump  him  for  information  as  to  the  methods  of  the 
German  snipers,  who  had  been  causing  us  trouble 
in  the  last  few  days. 

I  broached  the  subject  and  he  shut  up  like  a 
clam.  After  a  few  minutes  he  very  innocently 
said: 

"German  snipers  get  paid  rewards  for  killing  the 
English." 

I  eagerly  asked,  "What  are  they?*' 

He  answered: 

"For  killing  or  wounding  an  English  private,  the 
sniper  gets  one  mark.  For  killing  or  wounding  an 
English  officer  he  gets  five  marks,  but  if  he  kills 
a  Red  Cap  or  English  General,  the  sniper  gets 
twenty-one  days  tied  to  the  wheel  of  a  limber  as 
punishment  for  his  carelessness.'* 

Then  he  paused,  waiting  for  me  to  bite,  I 
suppose. 

I  bit  all  right  and  asked  him  why  the  sniper  was 

XI 


162  Over  the  Top 

punished  for  killing  an  English  general.  With  a 
smile  he  replied : 

"Well,  you  see,  if  all  the  English  generals  were 
killed,  there  would  be  no  one  left  to  make  costly 
mistakes. " 

I  shut  him  up,  he  was  getting  too  fresh  for  a 
prisoner.  After  a  while  he  winked  at  me  and  I 
winked  back,  then  the  escort  came  to  take  the 
prisoners  to  the  rear.  I  shook  hands  and  wished 
him  "The  best  of  luck  and  a  safe  journey  to 
Blighty." 

I  liked  that  prisoner,  he  was  a  fine  fel- 
low, had  an  Iron  Cross,  too.  I  advised  him 
to  keep  it  out  of  sight,  or  some  Tommy  would 
be  sending  it  home  to  his  girl  in  Blighty  as  a 
souvenir. 

One  dark  and  rainy  night  while  on  guard  we 
were  looking  over  the  top  from  the  fire  step  of  our 
front-line  trench,  when  we  heard  a  noise  immedi- 
ately in  front  of  our  barbed  wire.  The  sentry 
next  to  me  challenged,  "Halt,  Who  Comes  There?  " 
and  brought  his  rifle  to  the  aim.  His  challenge 
was  answered  in  German.  A  captain  in  the  next 
traverse  climbed  upon  the  sandbagged  parapet  to 
investigate — a  brave  but  foolhardly  deed — "Crack" 
went  a  bullet  and  he  tumbled  back  into  the  trench 


"Chats  with  Fritz"  163 

with  a  hole  through  his  stomach  and  died  a  few 
minutes  later.  A  lance-corporal  in  the  next 
platoon  was  so  enraged  at  the  Captain's  death 
that  he  chucked  a  Mills  bomb  in  the  direction 
of  the  noise  with  the  shouted  warning  to  us: 
"Duck  your  nappers,  my  lucky  lads/'  A  sharp 
dynamite  report,  a  flare  in  front  of  us,  and  then 
silence. 

We  immediately  sent  up  two  star  shells,  and  in 
their  light  could  see  two  dark  forms  lying  on  the 
ground  close  to  our  wire.  A  sergeant  and  four 
stretcher-bearers  went  out  in  front  and  soon 
returned,  carrying  two  limp  bodies.  Down  in  the 
dugout,  in  the  flickering  light  of  three  candles,  we 
saw  that  they  were  two  German  officers,  one  a 
captain  and  the  other  an  unteroffizier,  a  rank  one 
grade  higher  than  a  sergeant-major,  but  below  the 
grade  of  a  lieutenant. 

The  Captain's  face  had  been  almost  completely 
torn  away  by  the  bomb's  explosion.  The  Unter- 
offizier was  alive,  breathing  with  difficulty.  In  a 
few  minutes  he  opened  his  eyes  and  blinked  in 
the  glare  of  the  candles. 

The  pair  had  evidently  been  drinking  heavily,  for 
the  alcohol  fumes  were  sickening  and  completely 
pervaded  the  dugout.  I  turned  away  in  disgust, 


1 64  Ovar  the  Top 

hating  to  see  a  man  cross  the  Great  Divide  full  of 
booze. 

One  of  our  officers  could  speak  German  and  he 
questioned  the  dying  man. 

In  a  faint  voice,  interrupted  by  frequent  hic- 
coughs, the  Unteroffizier  told  his  story. 

There  had  been  a  drinking  bout  among  the 
officers  in  one  of  the  German  dugouts,  the  main 
beverage  being  champagne.  With  a  drunken  leer 
he  informed  us  that  champagne  was  plentiful  on 
their  side  and  that  it  did  not  cost  them  anything 
either.  About  seven  that  night  the  conversation 
had  turned  to  the  "  contemptible "  English,  and  the 
Captain  had  made  a  wager  that  he  would  hang  his 
cap  on  the  English  barbed  wire  to  show  his  con- 
tempt for  the  English  sentries.  The  wager  was 
accepted.  At  eight  o'clock  the  Captain  and  he 
had  crept  out  into  No  Man's  Land  to  carry  out 
this  wager. 

They  had  gotten  about  half  way  across  when  the 
drink  took  effect  and  the  Captain  fell  asleep. 
After  about  two  hours  of  vain  attempts  the  Unter- 
offizier had  at  last  succeeded  in  waking  the  Cap- 
tain, reminded  him  of  his  bet,  and  warned  him  that 
he  would  be  the  laughingstock  of  the  officers'  mess 
if  he  did  not  accomplish  his  object,  but  the 


44  Chats  with  Fritz  "  165 

Captain  was  trembling  all  over  and  insisted  on 
returning  to  the  German  lines.  In  the  darkness 
they  lost  their  bearings  and  crawled  toward  the 
English  trenches.  They  reached  the  barbed  wire 
and  were  suddenly  challenged  by  our  sentry. 
Being  too  drunk  to  realize  that  the  challenge  was 
in  English,  the  Captain  refused  to  crawl  back. 
Finally  the  Unteroffizier  convinced  his  superior 
that  they  were  in  front  of  the  English  wire.  Real- 
izing this  too  late,  the  Captain  drew  his  revolver 
and  with  a  muttered^curse  fired  blindly  toward  our 
trench.  His  bullet  no  doubt  killed  our  Captain/ 

Then  the  bomb  came  over  and  there  he  was, 
dying, — and  a  good  job  too,  we  thought.  The 
Captain  dead?  Well,  his  men  wouldn't  weep  at 
the  news. 

Without  giving  us"  any  further  information  the 
Unteroffizier  died. 

We  searched  the  bodies  for  identification  disks 
but  they  had  left  everything  behind  before  starting 
on  their  foolhardy  errand. 

Next  afternoon  we  buried  them  in  our  little 
cemetery  apart  from  the  graves  of  the  Tommies. 
If  you  ever  go  into  that  cemetery  you  will  see  two 
little  wooden  crosses  in  the  corner  of  the  cemetery 
set  away  from  the  rest. 


Over  the  Top 

They  read: 

Captain 

German  Army 

Died  —  1916 

Unknown 

R.  I.  P. 

Unteroffizier 

German  Army 

Died  —  1916 

Unknown 

R.  I.  P. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ABOUT  TURN 

THE  next  evening  we  were  relieved  by  the  — th 
Brigade,  and  once  again  returned  to  rest  bil- 
lets. Upon  arriving  at  these  billets  we  were  given 
twenty-four  hours  in  which  to  clean  up.  I  had 
just  finished  getting  the  mud  from  my  uniform 
when  the  Orderly  Sergeant  informed  me  that  my 
name  was  in  orders  for  leave,  and  that  I  was  to 
report  to  the  Orderly  Room  in  the  morning  for 
orders,  transportation,  and  rations. 

I  nearly  had  a  fit,  hustled  about,  packing  up, 
filling  my  pack  with  souvenirs  such  as  shell  heads, 
dud  bombs,  nose  caps,  shrapnel  balls,  and  a  Prus- 
sian Guardsman's  helmet.  In  fact,  before  I 
turned  in  that  night,  I  had  everything  ready  to 
report  at  the  Orderly  Room  at  nine  the  next 
morning. 

I  was  the  envy  of  the  whole  section,  swanking 
around,  telling  of  the  good  time  I  was  going  to 

167 


1 68  Over  the  Top 

have,  the  places  I  would  visit,  and  the  real,  old 
English  beer  I  intended  to  guzzle.  Sort  of  rubbed 
it  into  them,  because  they  all  do  it,  and  now  that  it 
was  my  turn,  I  took  pains  to  get  my  own  back. 

At  nine  I  reported  to  the  Captain,  receiving  my 
travel  order  and  pass.  He  asked  me  how  much 
money  I  wanted  to  draw.  I  glibly  answered, 
"Three  hundred  francs,  sir";  he  just  as  glibly 
handed  me  one  hundred. 

Reporting  at  Brigade  Headquarters,  with  my 
pack  weighing  a  ton,  I  waited,  with  forty  others, 
for  the  Adjutant  to  inspect  us.  After  an  hour's 
wait,  he  came  out;  must  have  been  sore  because 
he  wasn't  going  with  us. 

The  Quartermaster-Sergeant  issued  us  two  days' 
rations,  in  a  little  white  canvas  ration  bag,  which 
we  tied  to  our  belts. 

Then  two  motor  lorries  came  along  and  we  piled 
in,  laughing,  joking,  and  in  the  best  of  spirits.  We 
even  loved  the  Germans,  we  were  feeling  so  happy. 
Our  journey  to  seven  days'  bliss  in  Blighty  had 
commenced. 

The  ride  in  the  lorry  lasted  about  two  hours;  by 
this  time  we  were  covered  with  fine,  white  dust 
from  the  road,  but  didn't  mind,  even  if  we  were 
nearly  choking. 


ING   is  to  be  written  on  this  side  except  the 
..    and   signature  of   the   sender.     Sentences   not 
required  may  be  erased.    If  anything  else  Is  added 
e  post  card  will  be  destroyed^ 

.> 
-i  quite  well.  < ,  \ 

•:*  been  admitted  into  hosfrital 
sick          }    and  am  going  on  well. 
|    u-oundedj    and  hope  to  be  discluirged  soon. 

I  ant  being  sent  down  to  the  base. 
/  letter  dated 
I  have  received  your  <  telegram  ^ /.' 


1 


parcel 


Letter  follows  at  first  opportunity. 

I  have  received  no  letter  from  you 
(  lately. 
\  fur  a  long  time. 


only.       J 


Date - 

[Postage  must  be  prepaid  on  any  letter  or  post  card 
addressed  to  the  sender  of  this  card.] 


(I3&09)     Wt.W3»197-»»    l,12*m.     5/16    J.  J.  K.  A  Co.,  Ltd. 


Field  Post  Card  Issued  Once  a  Week  to  the  Tommies. 


About  Turn  169 

At  the  railroad  station  at  F we  reported  to 

an  officer,  who  had  a  white  band  around  his  arm, 
which  read  "R.  T.  0,"  (Royal  Transportation 
Officer) .  To  us  this  officer  was  Santa  Claus. 

The  Sergeant  in  charge  showed  him  our  orders; 
he  glanced  through  them  and  said,  "Make  your- 
selves comfortable  on  the  platform  and  don't 
leave,  the  train  is  liable  to  be  along  in  five  minutes 
— or  five  hours. " 

It  came  in  five  hours,  a  string  of  eleven  match 
boxes  on  big,  high  wheels,  drawn  by  a  dinky  little 
engine  with  the  "con."  These  match  boxes  were 
cattle  cars,  on  the  sides  of  which  was  painted  the 
old  familiar  sign,  "Hommes  40,  Chevaux  8." 

The  R.  T.  O.  stuck  us  all  into  one  car.  We 
didn't  care,  it  was  as  good  as  a  Pullman  to  us. 

Two  days  we  spent  on  that  train,  bumping, 
stopping,  jerking  ahead,  and  sometimes  sliding 
back.  At  three  stations  we  stopped  long  enough 
to  make  some  tea,  but  were  unable  to  wash,  so  when 

we  arrived  at  B ,  where  we  were  to  embark 

for  Blighty,  we  were  as  black  as  Turcos  and,  with 
our  unshaven  faces,  we  looked  like  a  lot  of  tramps. 
Though  tired  out,  we  were  happy. 

We  had  packed  up,  preparatory  to  detraining, 
when  a  R.  T.  0.  held  up  his  hand  for  us  to  stop 


170  Over  the  Top 

where  we  were  and  came  over.  This  is  what  he 
said: 

"Boys,  I'm  sorry,  but  orders  have  just  been 
received  cancelling  all  leave.  If  you  had  been 
three  hours  earlier  you  would  have  gotten  away. 
Just  stay  in  that  train,  as  it  is  going  back.  Ra- 
tions will  be  issued  to  you  for  your  return  journey 
to  your  respective  stations.  Beastly  rotten,  I 
know. "  Then  he  left. 

A  dead  silence  resulted.  Then  men  started  to 
curse,  threw  their  rifles  on  the  floor  of  the  car, 
others  said  nothing,  seemed  to  be  stupefied,  while 
some  had  the  tears  running  down  their  cheeks. 
It  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to  all. 

How  we  blinded  at  the  engineer  of  that  train, 
it  was  all  his  fault  (so  we  reasoned),  why  hadn't 
he  speeded  up  a  little  or  been  on  time,  then  we 
would  have  gotten  off  before  the  order  arrived? 
Now  it  was  no  Blighty  for  us. 

That  return  journey  was  misery  to  us;  I  just 
can't  describe  it. 

When  we  got  back  to  rest  billets,  we  found  that 
our  Brigade  was  in  the  trenches  (another  agree- 
able surprise),  and  that  an  attack  was  con- 
templated. 

Seventeen    of    the    forty-one    will    never    get 


About  Turn  171 

another  chance  to  go  on  leave;  they  were  killed  in 
the  attack.  Just  think  if  that  train  had  been  on 
time,  those  seventeen  would  still  be  alive. 

I  hate  to  tell  you  how  I  was  kidded  by  the  boys 
when  I  got  back,  but  it  was  good  and  plenty. 

Our  Machine  Gun  Company  took  over  their  part 
of  the  line  at  seven  o'clock,  the  night  after  I 
returned  from  my  near  leave. 

At  3.30  the  following  morning  three  waves  went 
over  and  captured  the  first  and  second  German 
trenches.  The  machine  gunners  went  over  with 
the  fourth  wave  to  consolidate  the  captured  line 
or  "dig  in"  as  Tommy  calls  it. 

Crossing  No  Man's  Land  without  clicking  any 
casualties,  we  came  to  the  German  trench  and 
mounted  our  guns  on  the  parados  of  same. 

I  never  saw  such  a  mess  in  my  life — bunches  of 
twisted  barbed  wire  lying  about,  shell  holes  every- 
where, trench  all  bashed  in,  parapets  gone,  and 
dead  bodies,  why,  that  ditch  was  full  of  them,  theirs 
and  ours.  It  was  a  regular  morgue.  Some  were 
mangled  horribly  from  our  shell  fire,  while  others 
were  wholly  or  partly  buried  in  the  mud,  the 
result  of  shell  explosions  caving  in  the  walls  of  the 
trench.  One  dead  German  was  lying  on  his  back, 
with  a  rifle  sticking  straight  up  in  the  air,  the 


172  Over  the  Top 

bayonet  of  which  was  buried  to  the  hilt  in  his 
chest.  Across  his  feet  lay  a  dead  English  soldier 
with  a  bullet  hole  in  his  forehead.  This  Tommy 
must  have  been  killed  just  as  he  ran  his  bayonet 
through  the  German. 

'  Rifles  and  equipment  were  scattered  about,  and 
occasionally  a  steel  helmet  could  be  seen  sticking 
out  of  the  mud. 

At  one  point,  just  in  the  entrance  to  a  communi- 
cation trench,  was  a  stretcher.  On  this  stretcher 
a  German  was  lying  with  a  white  bandage  around 
his  knee,  near  to  him  lay  one  of  the  stretcher-bear- 
ers, the  red  cross  on  his  arm  covered  with  mud 
and  his  helmet  filled  with  blood  and  brains.  Close 
by,  sitting  up  against  the  wall  of  the  trench,  with 
head  resting  on  his  chest,  was  the  other  stretcher- 
bearer.  He  seemed  to  be  alive,  the  posture  was  so 
natural  and  easy,  but  when  I  got  closer,  I  could 
see  a  large,  jagged  hole  in  his  temple.  The  three 
must  have  been  killed  by  the  same  shell-burst. 

The  dugouts  were  all  smashed  in  and  knocked 
about,  big  square-cut  timbers  splintered  into  bits, 
walls  caved  in,  and  entrances  choked. 

Tommy,  after  taking  a  trench,  learns  to  his 
sorrow,  that  the  hardest  part  of  the  work  is  to 
hold  it. 


About  Turn  173 

In  our  case  this  proved  to  be  so. 

The  German  artillery  and  machine  guns  had  us 
taped  (ranged)  for  fair;  it  was  worth  your  life  to 
expose  yourself  an  instant. 

Don't  think  for  a  minute  that  the  Germans  were 
the  only  sufferers,  we  were  clicking  casualties  so 
fast  that  you  needed  an  adding  machine  to  keep 
track  of  them. 

Did  you  ever  see  one  of  the  steam  shovels  at 
work  on  the  Panama  Canal,  well,  it  would  look 
like  a  hen  scratching  alongside  of  a  Tommy 
"digging  in'*  while  under  fire,  you  couldn't  see 
daylight  through  the  clouds  of  dirt  from  his 
shovel. 

After  losing  three  out  of  six  men  of  our  crew,  we 
managed  to  set  up  our  machine  gun.  One  of  the 
legs  of  the  tripod  was  resting  on  the  chest  of  a 
half-buried  body.  When  the  gun  was  firing,  it 
gave  the  impression  that  the  body  was  breathing, 
this  was  caused  by  the  excessive  vibration. 

Three  or  four  feet  down  the  trench,  about  three 
feet  from  the  ground,  a  foot  was  protruding  from 
the  earth;  we  knew  it  was  a  German  by  the  black 
leather  boot.  One  of  our  crew  used  that  foot  to 
hang  extra  bandoliers  of  ammunition  on.  This 
man  always  was  a  handy  fellow;  made  use  of 


174  Over  the  Top 

little  points  that  the  ordinary  person  would  over- 
look. 

The  Germans  made  three  counter  attacks,  which 
we  repulsed,  but  not  without  heavy  loss  on  our 
side.  They  also  suffered  severely  from  our  shell- 
and  machine-gun  fire.  The  ground  was  spotted 
with  their  dead  and  dying. 

The  next  day  things  were  somewhat  quieter, 
but  not  quiet  enough  to  bury  the  dead. 

We  lived,  ate,  and  slept  in  that  trench  with  the 
unburied  dead  for  six  days.  It  was  awful  to 
watch  their  faces  become  swollen  and  discolored. 
Towards  the  last  the  stench  was  fierce. 

What  got  on  my  nerves  the  most  was  that  foot 
sticking  out  of  the  dirt.  It  seemed  to  me,  at  night, 
in  the  moonlight,  to  be  trying  to  twist  around. 
Several  times  this  impression  was  so  strong  that 
I  went  to  it  and  grasped  it  in  both  hands,  to  see  if 
I  could  feel  a  movement. 

I  told  this  to  the  man  who  had  used  it  for  a  hat- 
rack  just  before  I  lay  down  for  a  little  nap,  as 
things  were  quiet  and  I  needed  a  rest  pretty 
badly.  When  I  woke  up  the  foot  was  gone.  He 
had  cut  it  off  with  our  chain  saw  out  of  the  spare 
parts'  box,  and  had  plastered  the  stump  over  with 
mud. 


About  Turn  175 

During  the  next  two  or  three  days,  before  we 
were  relieved,  I  missed  that  foot  dreadfully,  seemed 
as  if  I  had  suddenly  lost  a  chum. 

I  think  the  worst  thing  of  all  was  to  watch  the 
rats,  at  night,  and  sometimes  in  the  day,  run  over 
and  play  about  among  the  dead. 

Near  our  gun,  right  across  the  parapet,  could  be 
seen  the  body  of  a  German  lieutenant,  the  head  and 
arms  of  which  were  hanging  into  our  trench.  The 
man  who  had  cut  off  the  foot  used  to  sit  and  carry 
on  a  one-sided  conversation  with  this  officer,  used 
to  argue  and  point  out  why  Germany  was  in  the 
wrong.  During  all  of  this  monologue,  I  never 
heard  him  say  anything  out  of  the  way,  anything 
that  would  have  hurt  the  officer's  feelings  had  he 
been  alive.  He  was  square  all  right,  wouldn't 
even  take  advantage  of  a  dead  man  in  an  argument. 

To  civilians  this  must  seem  dreadful,  but  out 
here,  one  gets  so  used  to  awful  sights,  that  it  makes 
no  impression.  In  passing  a  butcher  shop,  you  are 
not  shocked  by  seeing  a  dead  turkey  hanging  from 
a  hook,  well,  in  France,  a  dead  body  is  looked  upon 
from  the  same  angle. 

But,  nevertheless,  when  our  six  days  were  up, 
we  were  tickled  to  death  to  be  relieved. 

Our   Machine   Gun   Company   lost   seventeen 


• 
1 76  Over  the  Top 

killed  and  thirty-one  wounded  in  that  little  local 
affair  of  "straightening  the  line,"  while  the  other 
companies  clicked  it  worse  than  we  did. 

After  the  attack  we  went  into  reserve  billets  for 
six  days,  and  on  the  seventh  once  again  we  were 
in  rest  billets. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

PUNISHMENTS  AND  MACHINE-GUN  STUNTS 

OOON  after  my  arrival  in  France,  in  fact  from 
^  my  enlistment,  I  had  found  that  in  the  British 
Army  discipline  is  very  strict.  One  has  to  be 
very  careful  in  order  to  stay  on  the  narrow  path 
of  government  virtue. 

There  are  about  seven  million  ways  of  breaking 
the  King's  Regulations;  to  keep  one  you  have  to 
break  another. 

The  worst  punishment  is  death  by  a  firing 
squad  or  "up  against  the  wall"  as  Tommy  calls  it. 

This  is  for  desertion,  cowardice,  mutiny,  giving 
information  to  the  enemy,  destroying  or  willfully 
wasting  ammunition,  looting,  rape,  robbing  the 
dead,  forcing  a  safeguard,  striking  a  superior,  etc. 

Then  comes  the  punishment  of  sixty-four  days 
in  the  front-line  trench  without  relief.  During  this 
time  you  have  to  engage  in  all  raids,  working  part- 
ies in  No  Man's  Land,  and  every  hazardous  under- 
taking that  comes  along.  If  you  live  through  the 
sixty-four  days  you  are  indeed  lucky. 

12  177 


178  Over  the  Top 

This  punishment  is  awarded  where  there  is  a 
doubt  as  to  the  willful  guilt  of  a  man  who  has 
committed  an  offence  punishable  by  death. 

Then  comes  the  famous  Field  Punishment  No.  i. 
Tommy  has  nicknamed  it  "crucifixion."  It 
means  that  a  man  is  spread  eagled  on  a  limber 
wheel,  two  hours  a  day  for  twenty-one  days. 
During  this  time  he  only  gets  water,  bully  beef, 
and  biscuits  for  his  chow.  You  get  "crucified" 
for  repeated  minor  offences. 

Next  in  order  is  Field  Punishment  No.  2. 

This  is  confinement  in  the  "Clink,"  without 
blankets,  getting  water,  bully  beef,  and  biscuits 
for  rations  and  doing  all  the  dirty  work  that  can 
be  found.  This  may  be  for  twenty-four  hours  or 
twenty  days,  according  to  the  gravity  of  the 
offence. 

Then  comes  "Pack  Drill"  or  Defaulters'  Parade. 
This  consists  of  drilling,  mostly  at  the  double,  for 
two  hours  with  full  equipment.  Tommy  hates 
this,  because  it  is  hard  work.  Sometimes  he  fills 
his  pack  with  straw  to  lighten  it,  and  sometimes  he 
gets  caught.  If  he  gets  caught,  he  grouses  at 
everything  in  general  for  twenty-one  days,  from* 
the  vantage  point  of  a  limber  wheel. 

Next  comes  "C.   B."  meaning   "Confined  to 


Punishments  179 

Barracks."  This  consists  of  staying  in  billets 
or  barracks  for  twenty-four  hours  to  seven  days. 
You  also  get  an  occasional  Defaulters'  Parade 
and  dirty  jobs  around  the  quarters. 

The  Sergeant-Major  keeps  what  is  known  as  the 
Crime  Sheet.  When  a  man  commits  an  offence, 
he  is  "Crimed,"  that  is,  his  name,  number,  and 
offence  is  entered  on  the  Crime  Sheet.  Next  day 
at  9  A.M.  he  goes  to  the  "Orderly  Room"  before 
the  Captain,  who  either  punishes  him  with 
"  C.B."  or  sends  him  before  the  O.  C.  (Officer  Com- 
manding Battalion).  The  Captain  of  the  Com- 
pany can  only  award  "C.  B." 

Tommy  many  a  time  has  thanked  the  King  for 
making  that  provision  in  his  regulations. 

To  gain  the  title  of  a  "smart  soldier,"  Tommy 
has  to  keep  clear  of  the  Crime  Sheet,  and  you  have 
to  be  darned  smart  to  do  it. 

I  have  been  on  it  a  few  times,  mostly  for 
"Yankee  impudence." 

During  our  stay  of  two  weeks  in  rest  billets  our 
Captain  put  us  through  a  course  of  machine-gun 
drills,  trying  out  new  stunts  and  theories. 

After  parades  were  over,  our  guns'  crews  got 
together  and  also  tried  out  some  theories  of  their 
own  in  reference  to  handling  guns.  These  courses 


i8o  Over  the  Top. 

had  nothing  to  do  with  the  advancement  of  the 
war,  consisted  mostly  of  causing  tricky  jams  in 
the  gun,  and  then  the  rest  of  the  crew  would 
endeavor  to  locate  as  quickly  as  possible  the 
cause  of  the  stoppage.  This  amused  them  for  a 
few  days  and  then  things  came  to  a  standstill. 

One  of  the  boys  on  my  gun  claimed  that  he  could 
play  a  tune  while  the  gun  was  actually  firing,  and 
demonstrated  this  fact  one  day  on  the  target 
range.  We  were  very  enthusiastic  and  decided 
to  become  musicians. 

After  constant  practice  I  became  quite  expert 
in  the  tune  entitled  All  Conductors  Have  Big 
Feet. 

When  I  had  mastered  this  tune,  our  two  weeks' 
rest  came  to  an  end,  and  once  again  we  went  up 

the  line  and  took  over  the  sector  in  front  of  G 

Wood. 

At  this  point  the  German  trenches  ran  around 
the  base  of  a  hill,  on  the  top  of  which  was  a  dense 
wood.  This  wood  was  infested  with  machine 
guns,  which  used  to  traverse  our  lines  at  will,  and 
sweep  the  streets  of  a  little  village,  where  we  were 
billeted  while  in  reserve. 

There  was  one  gun  in  particular  which  used  to 
get  our  goats,  it  had  the  exact  range  of  our  "ele- 


Machine-Gun  Stunts  181 

phant"  dugout  entrance,  and  every  evening,  about 
the  time  rations  were  being  brought  up,  its  bullets 
would  knock  up  the  dust  on  the  road;  more  than 
one  Tommy  went  West  or  to  Blighty  by  running 
into  them. 

This  gun  got  our  nerves  on  edge,  and  Fritz 
seemed  to  know  it,  because  he  never  gave  us  an 
hour's  rest.  Our  reputation  as  machine  gunners 
was  at  stake;  we  tried  various  ruses  to  locate  and 
put  this  gun  out  of  action,  but  each  one  proved  to 
be  a  failure,  and  Fritz  became  a  worse  nuisance 
than  ever.  He  was  getting  fresher  and  more 
careless  every  day,  took  all  kinds  of  liberties, 
with  us, — thought  he  was  invincible. 

Then  one  of  our  crew  got  a  brilliant  idea  and  we 
were  all  enthusiastic  to  put  it  to  the  test. 

Here  was  his  scheme: 

When  firing  my  gun,  I  was  to  play  my  tune,  and 
Fritz,  no  doubt,  would  fall  for  it,  try  to  imitate 
me  as  an  added  insult.  This  gunner  and  two 
others  would  try,  by  the  sound,  to  locate  Fritz 
and  his  gun.  After  having  got  the  location,  they 
would  mount  two  machine  guns  in  trees,  in  a  little 
clump  of  woods,  to  the  left  of  our  cemetery,  and 
while  Fritz  was  in  the  middle  of  his  lesson,  would 
open  up  and  trust  to  luck.  By  our  calculations, 


1 82  Over  the  Top 

it  would  take  at  least  a  week  to  pull  off  the 
stunt. 

If  Fritz  refused  to  swallow  our  bait,  it  would  be 
impossible  to  locate  his  special  gun,  and  that's  the 
one  we  were  after,  because  they  all  sound  alike,  a 
slow  pup-pup-pup. 

Our  prestige  was  hanging  by  a  thread.  In  the 
battalion  we  had  to  endure  all  kinds  of  insults  and 
fresh  remarks  as  to  our  ability  in  silencing  Fritz. 
Even  to  the  battalion  that  German  gun  was  a  sore 
spot. 

Next  day,  Fritz  opened  up  as  usual.  I  let  him 
fire  away  for  a  while  and  then  butted  in  with  my 
"pup-pup-pup-pup-pup-pup."  I  kept  this  up 
quite  a  while,  used  two  belts  of  ammunition. 
Fritz  had  stopped  firing  to  listen.  Then  he 
started  in ;  sure  enough,  he  had  fallen  for  our  game, 
his  gun  was  trying  to  imitate  mine,  but,  at  first  he 
made  a  horrible  mess  of  that  tune.  Again  I 
butted  in  with  a  few  bars  and  stopped.  Then  he 
tried  to  copy  what  I  had  played.  He  was  a  good 
sport  all  right,  because  his  bullets  were  going  away 
over  our  heads,  must  have  been  firing  into  the  air. 
I  commenced  to  feel  friendly  toward  him. 

This  duet  went  on  for  five  days.  Fritz  was  a 
good  pupil  and  learned  rapidly,  in  fact,  got  better 


Machine-Gun  Stunts  183 

than  his  teacher.  I  commenced  to  feel  jealous. 
When  he  had  completely  mastered  the  tune,  he 
started  sweeping  the  road  again  and  we  clicked  it 
worse  than  ever.  But  he  signed  his  death  warrant 
by  doing  so,  because  my  friendship  turned  to  hate. 
Every  time  he  fired  he  played  that  tune  and  we 
danced. 

The  boys  in  the  battalion  gave  us  the  "Ha! 
Ha ! "  They  weren't  in  on  our  little  frame-up. 

The  originator  of  the  ruse  and  the  other  two 
gunners  had  Fritz's  location  taped  to  the  minute; 
they  mounted  their  two  guns,  and  also  gave  me 
the  range.  The  next  afternoon  was  set  for  the 
grand  finale. 

Our  three  guns,  with  different  elevations,  had 
their  fire  so  arranged,  that,  opening  up  together, 
their  bullets  would  suddenly  drop  on  Fritz  like  a 
hailstorm. 

About  three  the  next  day,  Fritz  started  "pup- 
pupping"  that  tune.  I  blew  a  sharp  blast  on  a 
whistle,  it  was  the  signal  agreed  upon;  we  turned 
loose  and  Fritz's  gun  suddenly  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  a  bar.  We  had  cooked  his  goose,  and 
our  ruse  had  worked.  After  firing  two  belts  each, 
to  make  sure  of  our  job,  we  hurriedly  dismounted 
our  guns  and  took  cover  in  the  dugout.  We  knew 


1 84  Over  the  Top 

what  to  expect  soon.  We  didn't  have  to  wait 
long,  three  salvos  of  "whizz-bangs"  came  over 
from  Fritz's  artillery,  a  further  confirmation  that 
we  had  sent  that  musical  machine-gunner  on  his 
westward  bound  journey. 

That  gun  never  bothered  us  again.  We  were  the 
heroes  of  the  battalion,  our  Captain  congratulated 
us,  said  it  was  a  neat  piece  of  work,  and,  conse- 
quently, we  were  all  puffed  up  over  the  stunt. 

There  are  several  ways  Tommy  uses  to  disguise 
the  location  of  his  machine  gun  and  get  his  range. 
Some  of  the  most  commonly  used  stunts  are  as 
follows : 

At  night,  when  he  mounts  his  gun  over  the  top  of 
his  trench  and  wants  to  get  the  range  of  Fritz's 
trench  he  adopts  the  method  of  what  he  terms 
"getting  the  sparks."  This  consists  of  firing 
bursts  from  his  gun  until  the  bullets  hit  the  Ger- 
man barbed  wire.  He  can  tell  when  they  are 
cutting  the  wire,  because  a  bullet  when  it  hits  a 
wire  throws  out  a  blue  electric  spark.  Machine- 
gun  fire  is  very  damaging  to  wire  and  causes  many 
a  wiring  party  to  go  out  at  night  when  it  is  quiet  to 
repair  the  damage. 

To  disguise  the  flare  of  his  gun  at  night  when 
firing,  Tommy  uses  what  is  called  a  flare  protector. 


Machine-Gun  Stunts  185 

This  is  a  stove-pipe  arrangement  which  fits  over 
the  barrel  casing  of  the  gun  and  screens  the  sparks 
from  the  right  and  left,  but  not  from  the  front. 
So  Tommy,  always  resourceful,  adopts  this  scheme. 
About  three  feet  or  less  in  front  of  the  gun  he  drives 
two  stakes  into  the  ground,  about  five  feet  apart. 
Across  these  stakes  he  stretches  a  curtain  made 
out  of  empty  sandbags  ripped  open.  He  soaks 
this  curtain  in  water  and  fires  through  it.  The 
water  prevents  it  catching  fire  and  effectively 
screens  the  flare  of  the  firing  gun  from  the  enemy. 
Sound  is  a  valuable  asset  in  locating  a  machine 
gun,  but  Tommy  surmounts  this  obstacle  by  plac- 
ing two  machine  guns  about  one  hundred  to  one 
hundred  fifty  yards  apart.  The  gun  on  the  right  to 
cover  with  its  fire  the  sector  of  the  left  gun  and  the 
gun  on  the  left  to  cover  that  of  the  right  gun.  This 
makes  their  fire  cross;  they  are  fired  simultaneously. 


\ 


1 86  Over  the  Top 

By  this  method  it  sounds  like  one  gun  firing 
and  gives  the  Germans  the  impression  that  the 
gun  is  firing  from  a  point  midway  between  the 
guns  which  are  actually  firing,  and  they  accordingly 
shell  that  particular  spot.  The  machine  gunners 
chuckle  and  say,  "  Fritz  is  a  brainy  boy,  not  'alf 
he  ain't." 

But  the  men  in  our  lines  at  the  spot  being 
shelled  curse  Fritz  for  his  ignorance  and  pass  a 
few  pert  remarks  down  the  line  in  reference  to  the 
machine  gunners  being  "windy"  and  afraid  to 
take  their  medicine. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

GAS  ATTACKS  AND  SPIES 

HPHREE  days  after  we  had  silenced  Fritz,  the 
*  Germans  sent  over  gas.  It  did  not  catch 
us  unawares,  because  the  wind  had  been  made  to 
order,  that  is,  it  was  blowing  from  the  German 
trenches  towards  ours  at  the  rate  of  about  five 
miles  per  hour. 

Warnings  had  been  passed  down  the  trench 
to  keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  gas. 

We  had  a  new  man  at  the  periscope,  on  this 
afternoon  in  question;  I  was  sitting  on  the  fire 
step,  cleaning  my  rifle,  when  he  called  out  to  me : 

"There's  a  sort  of  greenish,  yellow  cloud  rolling 
along  the  ground  out  in  front,  it's  coming " 

But  I  waited  for  no  more,  grabbing  my  bayonet, 
which  was  detached  from  the  rifle,  I  gave  the 
alarm  by  banging  an  empty  shell  case,  which  was 
hanging  near  the  periscope.  At  the  same  instant, 
gongs  started  ringing  down  the  trench,  the  signal 

187 


1 88  Over  the  Top 

for  Tommy  to  don  his  respirator,  or  smoke  helmet, 
as  we  call  it. 

Gas  travels  quickly,  so  you  must  not  lose  any 
time;  you  generally  have  about  eighteen  or  twenty 
seconds  in  which  to  adjust  your  gas  helmet. 

A  gas  helmet  is  made  of  cloth,  treated  with 
chemicals.  There  are  two  windows,  or  glass  eyes, 
in  it,  through  which  you  can  see.  Inside  there  is 
a  rubber-covered  tube,  which  goes  in  the  mouth. 
You  breathe  through  your  nose;  the  gas,  passing 
through  the  cloth  helmet,  is  neutralized  by  the 
action  of  the  chemicals.  The  foul  air  is  exhaled 
through  the  tube  in  the  mouth,  this  tube  being 
so  constructed  that  it  prevents  the  inhaling  of 
the  outside  air  or  gas.  One  helmet  is  good  for 
five  hours  of  the  strongest  gas.  Each  Tommy 
carries  two  of  them  slung  around  his  shoulder 
in  a  waterproof  canvas  bag.  He  must  wear  this 
bag  at  all  times,  even  while  sleeping.  To  change 
a  defective  helmet,  you  take  out  the  new  one, 
hold  your  breath,  pull  the  old  one  off,  placing  the 
new  one  over  your  head,  tucking  in  the  loose  ends 
under  the  collar  of  your  tunic. 

For  a  minute,  pandemonium  reigned  in  our 
trench, — Tommies  adjusting  their  helmets,  bomb- 
ers running  here  and  there,  and  men  turning  out 


Gas  Attacks  and  Spies  189 

of  the  dugouts  with  fixed  bayonets,  to  man  the 
fire  step. 

Re-inforcements  were  pouring  out  of  the  com- 
munication trenches. 

Our  gun's  crew  were  busy  mounting  the  machine 
gun  on  the  parapet  and  bringing  up  extra 
ammunition  from  the  dugout. 

German  gas  is  heavier  than  air  and  soon  fills 
the  trenches  and  dugouts,  where  it  has  been 
known  to  lurk  for  two  or  three  days,  until  the 
air  is  purified  by  means  of  large  chemical 
sprayers. 

We  had  to  work  quickly,  as  Fritz  generally 
follows  the  gas  with  an  infantry  attack. 

A  company  man  on  our  right  was  too  slow  in 
getting  on  his  helmet;  he  sank  to  the  ground, 
clutching  at  his  throat,  and  after  a  few  spasmodic 
twistings,  went  West  (died).  It  was  horrible  to 
see  him  die,  but  we  were  powerless  to  help  him. 
In  the  corner  of  a  traverse,  a  little,  muddy  cur 
dog,  one  of  the  company's  pets,  was  lying  dead, 
with  his  two  paws  over  his  nose. 

It's  the  animals  that  suffer  the  most,  the  horses, 
mules,  cattle,  dogs,  cats,  and  rats,  they  having 
no  helmets  to  save  them.  Tommy  does  not 
sympathize  with  rats  in  a  gas  attack. 


190  Over  the  Top 

At  times,  gas  has  been  known  to  travel,  with 
dire  results,  fifteen  miles  behind  the  lines. 

A  gas,  or  smoke  helmet,  as  it  is  called,  at  the 
best  is  a  vile-smelling  thing,  and  it  is  not  long 
before  one  gets  a  violent  headache  from  wear- 
ing it. 

Our  eighteen-pounders  were  bursting  in  No 
Man's  Land,  in  an  effort,  by  the  artillery,  to 
disperse  the  gas  clouds. 

The  fire  step  was  lined  with  crouching  men, 
bayonets  fixed,  and  bombs  near  at  hand  to  repel 
the  expected  attack. 

Our  artillery  had  put  a  barrage  of  curtain  fire 
on  the  German  lines,  to  try  and  break  up  their 
attack  and  keep  back  re-inforcements. 

I  trained  my  machine  gun  on  their  trench  and 
its  bullets  were  raking  the  parapet. 

Then  over  they  came,  bayonets  glistening.  In 
their  respirators,  which  have  a  large  snout  in 
front,  they  looked  like  some  horrible  nightmare. 

All  along  our  trench,  rifles  and  machine  guns 
spoke,  our  shrapnel  was  bursting  over  their  heads. 
They  went  down  in  heaps,  but  new  ones  took  the 
place  of  the  fallen.  Nothing  could  stop  that  mad 
rush.  The  Germans  reached  our  barbed  wire, 
which  had  previously  been  demolished  by  their 


A  Gas  Helmet. 


Gas  Attacks  and  Spies  191 

shells,  then  it  was  bomb  against  bomb,  and  the 
devil  for  all. 

Suddenly,  my  head  seemed  to  burst  from  a 
loud  "crack"  in  my  ear.  Then  my  head  began 
to  swim,  throat  got  dry,  and  a  heavy  pressure  on 
the  lungs  warned  me  that  my  helmet  was  leaking. 
Turning  my  gun  over  to  No.  2, 1  changed  helmets. 

The  trench  started  to  wind  like  a  snake,  and 
sandbags  appeared  to  be  floating  in  the  air.  The 
noise  was  horrible;  I  sank  onto  the  fire  step, 
needles  seemed  to  be  pricking  my  flesh,  then 
blackness. 

I  was  awakened  by  one  of  my  mates  removing 
my  smoke  helmet.  How  delicious  that  cool, 
fresh  air  felt  in  my  lungs. 

A  strong  wind  had  arisen  and  dispersed  the 
gas. 

They  told  me  that  I  had  been  "out"  for  three 
hours;  they  thought  I  was  dead. 

The  attack  had  been  repulsed  after  a  hard 
fight.  Twice  the  Germans  had  gained  a  foothold 
in  our  trench,  but  had  been  driven  out  by  counter- 
attacks. The  trench  was  filled  with  their  dead 
and  ours.  Through  a  periscope,  I  counted  eigh- 
teen dead  Germans  in  our  wire;  they  were  a  ghastly 
sight  in  their  horrible -looking  respirators. 


192  Over  the  Top 

I  examined  my  first  smoke  helmet,  a  bullet  had 
gone  through  it  on  the  left  side,  just  grazing  my 
ear,  the  gas  had  penetrated  through  the  hole  made 
in  the  cloth. 

Out  of  our  crew  of  six,  we  lost  two  killed  and 
two  wounded. 

That  night  we  buried  all  of  the  dead,  excepting 
those  in  No  Man's  Land.  In  death  there  is  not 
much  distinction,  friend  and  foe  are  treated  alike. 

After  the  wind  had  dispersed  the  gas,  the 
R.  A.  M.  C.  got  busy  with  their  chemical  sprayers, 
spraying  out  the  dugouts  and  low  parts  of  the 
trenches  to  dissipate  any  fumes  of  the  German 
gas  which  may  have  been  lurking  in  same. 

Two  days  after  the  gas  attack,  I  was  sent  to 
Division  Headquarters,  in  answer  to  an  order 
requesting  that  captains  of  units  should  detail  a 
man  whom  they  thought  capable  of  passing  an 
examination  for  the  Divisional  Intelligence  Depart- 
ment. 

Before  leaving  for  this  assignment  I  went  along 
the  front-line  trench  saying  good-bye  to  my  mates 
and  lording  it  over  them,  telling  them  that  I  had 
clicked  a  cushy  job  behind  the  lines,  and  how 
sorry  I  felt  that  they  had  to  stay  in  the  front  line 
and  argue  out  the  war  with  Fritz.  They  were 


Gas  Attacks  and  Spies  193 

envious  but  still  good  natured,  and  as  I  left  the 
trench  to  go  to  the  rear  they  shouted  after  me: 

"Good  luck,  Yank,  old  boy,  don't  forget  to 
send  up  a  few  fags  to  your  old  mates." 

I  promised  to  do  this  and  left. 

I  reported  at  Headquarters  with  sixteen  others 
and  passed  the  required  examination.  Out  of 
the  sixteen  applicants  four  were  selected. 

I  was  highly  elated  because  I  was,  as  I  thought, 
in  for  a  cushy  job  back  at  the  base. 

The  next  morning  the  four  reported  to  Division 
Headquarters  for  instructions.  Two  of  the  men 
were  sent  to  large  towns  in  the  rear  of  the  lines 
with  an  easy  job.  When  it  came  our  turn,  the 
officer  told  us  we  were  good  men  and  had  passed  a 
very  creditable  examination. 

My  tin  hat  began  to  get  too  small  for  me,  and 
I  noted  that  the  other  man,  Atwell,  by  name,  was 
sticking  his  chest  out  more  than  usual. 

The  officer  continued:  "I  think  I  can  use  you 
two  men  to  great  advantage  in  the  front  line. 
Here  are  your  orders  and  instructions,  also  the 
pass  which  gives  you  full  authority  as  special 
M.  P.  detailed  on  intelligence  work.  Report  at  the 
front  line  according  to  your  instructions.  It  is 

risky  work  and  I  wish  you  both  the  best  of  luck." 
13 


194  Over  the  Top 

My  heart  dropped  to  zero  and  AtwelTs  face  was 
a  study.  We  saluted  and  left. 

That  wishing  us  the  "best  of  luck"  sounded 
very  ominous  in  our  ears;  if  he  had  said  "I  wish 
you  both  a  swift  and  painless  death"  it  would 
have  been  more  to  the  point. 

When  we  had  read  our  instructions  we  knew 
we  were  in  for  it  good  and  plenty. 

What  Atwell  said  is  not  fit  for  publication,  but  I 
strongly  seconded  his  opinion  of  the  War,  Army, 
and  Divisional  Headquarters  in  general. 

After  a  bit  our  spirits  rose.  We  were  full- 
fledged  spy-catchers,  because  our  instructions 
and  orders  said  so. 

We  immediately  reported  to  the  nearest  French 
estaminet  and  had  several  glasses  of  muddy  water, 
which  they  called  beer.  After  drinking  our  beer  we 
left  the  estaminet  and  hailed  an  empty  ambulance. 

After  showing  the  driver  our  passes  we  got  in. 
The  driver  was  going  to  the  part  of  the  line  where 
we  had  to  report. 

The  ambulance  was  a  Ford  and  lived  up  to  its 
reputation. 

How  the  wounded  ever  survived  a  ride  in  it 
was  inexplicable  to  me.  It  was  worse  than  riding 
on  a  gun  carriage  over  a  rocky  road. 


Gas  Attacks  and  Spies  195 

The  driver  of  the  ambulance  was  a  corporal  of 
the  R.  A.  M.  C.,  and  he  had  the  "wind  up," 
that  is,  he  had  an  aversion  to  being  under  fire. 

I  was  riding  on  the  seat  with  him  while  Atwell 
was  sitting  in  the  ambulance,  with  his  legs  hanging 
out  of  the  back. 

As  we  passed  through  a  shell-destroyed  village 
a  mounted  military  policeman  stopped  us  and 
informed  the  driver  to  be  very  careful  when  we 
got  out  on  the  open  road,  as  it  was  very  dangerous, 
because  the  Germans  lately  had  acquired  the 
habit  of  shelling  it.  The  Corporal  asked  the 
trooper  if  there  was  any  other  way  around,  and 
was  informed  that  there  was  not.  Upon  this  he 
got  very  nervous,  and  wanted  to  turn  back,  but 
we  insisted  that  he  proceed  and  explained  to  him 
that  he  would  get  into  serious  trouble  with  his 
commanding  officer  if  he  returned  without  orders; 
we  wanted  to  ride,  not  walk. 

From  his  conversation  we  learned  that  he  had 
recently  come  from  England  with  a  draft  and  had 
never  been  under  fire,  hence,  his  nervousness. 

We  convinced  him  that  there  was  not  much 
danger,  and  he  appeared  greatly  relieved. 

When  we  at  last  turned  into  the  open  road, 
we  were  not  so  confident.  On  each  side  there 


Over  the  Top 

had  been  a  line  of  trees,  but  now,  all  that  was 
left  of  them  were  torn  and  battered  stumps. 
The  fields  on  each  side  of  the  road  were  dotted 
with  recent  shell  holes,  and  we  passed  several  in 
the  road  itself.  We  had  gone  about  half  a  mile 
when  a  shell  came  whistling  through  the  air, 
and  burst  in  a  field  about  three  hundred  yards  to 
our  right.  Another  soon  followed  this  one,  and 
burst  on  the  edge  of  the  road  about  four  hundred 
yards  in  front  of  us. 

I  told  the  driver  to  throw  in  his  speed  clutch,  as 
we  must  be  in  sight  of  the  Germans.  I  knew  the 
signs;  that  battery  was  ranging  for  us,  and  the 
quicker  we  got  out  of  its  zone  of  fire  the  better. 
The  driver  was  trembling  like  a  leaf,  and  every 
minute  I  expected  him  to  pile  us  up  in  the  ditch. 
I  preferred  the  German  fire. 

In  the  back,  Atwell  was  holding  onto  the  straps 
for  dear  life,  and  was  singing  at  the  top  of  his 
voice, 

We  beat  you  at  the  Marne, 

We  beat  you  at  the  Aisne, 
We  gave  you  hell  at  Neuve  Chapelle, 

And  here  we  are  again. 

Just  then  we  hit  a  small  shell  hole  and  nearly 


Gas  Attacks  and  Spies  197 

capsized.  Upon  a  loud  yell  from  the  rear  I  looked 
behind,  and  there  was  Atwell  sitting  in  the  middle 
of  the  road,  shaking  his  fist  at  us.  His  equipment, 
which  he  had  taken  off  upon  getting  into  the 
ambulance,  was  strung  out  on  the  ground,  and 
his  rifle  was  in  the  ditch. 

I  shouted  to  the  driver  to  stop,  and  in  his 
nervousness  he  put  on  the  brakes.  We  nearly 
pitched  out  head  first.  But  the  applying  of  those 
brakes  saved  our  lives.  The  next  instant  there 
was  a  blinding  flash  and  a  deafening  report.  All 
that  I  remember  is  that  I  was  flying  through  the  air, 
and  wondering  if  I  would  land  in  a  soft  spot.  Then 
the  lights  went  out. 

When  I  came  to,  Atwell  was  pouring  water  on 
my  head  out  of  his  bottle.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  road,  the  Corporal  was  sitting,  rubbing  a  lump 
on  his  forehead  with  his  left  hand,  while  his  right 
arm  was  bound  up  in  a  blood-soaked  bandage. 
He  was  moaning  very  loudly.  I  had  an  awful 
headache,  and  the  skin  on  the  left  side  of  my  face 
was  full  of  gravel,  and  the  blood  was  trickling 
from  my  nose. 

But  that  ambulance  was  turned  over  in  the 
ditch,  and  was  perforated  with  holes  from  frag- 
ments of  the  shell.  One  of  the  front  wheels  was 


198  Over  the  Top 

slowly  revolving,  so  I  could  not  have  been  "out" 
for  a  long  period. 

If  Mr.  Ford  could  have  seen  that  car,  his 
"Peace  at  Any  Price"  conviction  would  have  been 
materially  strengthened,  and  he  would  have  im- 
mediately fitted  out  another  "peace  ship." 

The  shells  were  still  screaming  overhead, 
but  the  battery  had  raised  its  fire,  and  they  were 
bursting  in  a  little  wood>  about  half  a  mile  from  us. 

Atwell  spoke  up,  "I  wish  that  officer  hadn't 
wished  us  the  best  o'  luck."  Then  he  commenced 
swearing.  I  couldn't  help  laughing,  though  my 
head  was  nigh  to  bursting. 

Slowly  rising  to  my  feet  I  felt  myself  all  over  to 
make  sure  that  there  were  no  broken  bones.  But 
outside  of  a  few  bruises  and  scratches,  I  was 
all  right.  The  Corporal  was  still  moaning,  but 
more  from  shock  than  pain.  A  shell  splinter  had 
gone  through  the  flesh  of  his  right  forearm.  At- 
well and  I,  from  our  first-aid  pouches,  put  a 
tourniquet  on  his  arm  to  stop  the  bleeding,  and 
then  gathered  up  our  equipment. 

We  realized  that  we  were  in  a  dangerous  spot. 
At  any  minute  a  shell  might  drop  on  the  road 
and  finish  us  off.  The  village  we  had  left  was  not 
very  far,  so  we  told  the  Corporal  he  had  better 


Gas  Attacks  and  Spies  199 

go  back  to  it  and  get  his  arm  dressed,  and  then 
report  the  fact  of  the  destruction  of  the  ambulance 
to  the  military  police.  He  was  well  able  to  walk, 
so  he  set  off  in  the  direction  of  the  village,  while 
Atwell  and  I  continued  our  way  on  foot. 

Without  further  mishap  we  arrived  at  our  desti- 
nation, and  reported  to  Brigade  Headquarters  for 
rations  and  billets. 

That  night  we  slept  in  the  Battalion  Sergeant- 
Major's  dugout.  The  next  morning  I  went  to  a 
first-aid  post  and  had  the  gravel  picked  out  of 
my  face. 

The  instructions  we  received  from  Division 
Headquarters  read  that  we  were  out  to  catch 
spies,  patrol  trenches,  search  German  dead,  re- 
connoiter  in  No  Man's  Land,  and  take  part  in 
trench  raids,  and  prevent  the  robbing  of  the  dead. 

I  had  a  pass  which  would  allow  me  to  go  any- 
where at  any  time  in  the  sector  of  the  line  held 
by  our  division.  It  also  gave  me  authority  to 
stop  and  search  ambulances,  motor  lorries,  wagons, 
and  even  officers  and  soldiers,  whenever  my 
suspicions  deemed  it  necessary.  Atwell  and  I 
were  allowed  to  work  together  or  singly, — it  was 
left  to  our  judgment.  We  decided  to  team  up. 

Atwell  was  a  good  companion  and  very  enter- 


200  Over  the  Top 

taining.  He  had  an  utter  contempt  for  danger, 
but  was  not  foolhardy.  At  swearing  he  was  a 
wonder.  A  cavalry  regiment  would  have  been 
proud  of  him.  Though  born  in  England,  he  had 
spent  several  years  in  New  York.  He  was  about 
six  feet  one,  and  as  strong  as  an  ox.  I  am  five 
feet  five  in  height,  so  we  looked  like  "Bud" 
Fisher's  "Mutt  and  Jeff"  when  together. 

We  took  up  our  quarters  in  a  large  dugout  of  the 
Royal  Engineers,  and  mapped » out  our  future 
actions.  This  dugout  was  on  the  edge  of  a  large 
cemetery,  and  several  times  at  night  in  returning 
to  it,  we  got  many  a  fall  stumbling  over  the 
graves  of  English,  French,  and  Germans.  Atwell 
on  these  occasions  never  indulged  in  swearing, 
though  at  any  other  time,  at  the  least  stumble,  he 
would  turn  the  air  blue. 

A  certain  section  of  our  trenches  was  held  by 
the  Royal  Irish  Rifles.  For  several  days  a  very 
strong  rumor  went  the  rounds  that  a  German  spy 
was  in  our  midsc.  This  spy  was  supposed  to  be 
dressed  in  the  uniform  of  a  British  Staff  Officer. 
Several  stories  had  been  told  about  an  officer 
wearing  a  red  band  around  his  cap,  who  patrolled 
the  front-line  and  communication  trenches  asking 
suspicious  questions  as  to  location  of  batteries, 


Gas  Attacks  and  Spies  2*1 

machine-gun  emplacements,  and  trench  mortars. 
If  a  shell  dropped  in  a  battery,  on  a  machine 
gun,  or  even  near  a  dugout,  this  spy  was  blamed. 

The  rumor  gained  such  strength  that  an  order 
was  issued  for  all  troops  to  immediately  place 
under  arrest  anyone  answering  to  the  description 
of  the  spy. 

Atwell  and  I  were  on  the  qui  vive.  We  con- 
stantly patrolled  the  trenches  at  night,  and  even 
in  the  day,  but  the  spy  always  eluded  us. 

One  day,  while  in  a  communication  trench,  we 
were  horrified  to  see  our  Brigadier-General,  Old 
Pepper,  being  brought  down  it  by  a  big  private  of 
the  Royal  Irish  Rifles.  The  General  was  walking 
in  front,  and  the  private  with  fixed  bayonet  was 
following  him  in  the  rear. 

We  saluted  as  the  General  passed  us.  The 
Irishman  had  a  broad  grin  on  his  face  and  we 
could  scarcely  believe  our  eyes — the  General  was 
under  arrest.  After  passing  a  few  feet  beyond  us, 
the  General  turned,  and  said  in  a  wrathful  voice 
to  Atwell: 

"Tell  this  d — n  fool  who  I  am.  He's  arrested 
me  as  a  spy." 

Atwell  was  speechless.  The  sentry  butted  in 
with: 


202  Over  the  Top 

"None  o'  that  gassin'  out  o'  you.  Back  to 
Headquarters  you  goes,  Mr.  Fritz.  Open  that 
face  o'  yours  again,  an*  I'll  dent  in  your  napper 
with  the  butt  o'  me  rifle." 

The  General's  face  was  a  sight  to  behold.  He 
was  fairly  boiling  over  with  rage,  but  he  shut  up. 

Atwell  tried  to  get  in  front  of  the  sentry  to 
explain  to  him  that  it  really  was  the  General  he 
had  under  arrest,  but  the  sentry  threatened  to  run 
his  bayonet  through  him,  and  would  have  done  it, 
too.  So  Atwell  stepped  aside,  and  remained 
silent.  I  was  nearly  bursting  with  suppressed 
laughter.  One  word,  and  I  would  have  exploded. 
It  is  not  exactly  diplomatic  to  laugh  at  your  General 
in  such  a  predicament. 

The  sentry  and  his  prisoner  arrived  at  Brigade 
Headquarters  with  disastrous  results  to  the  sentry. 

The  joke  was  that  the  General  had  personally 
issued  the  order  for  the  spy's  arrest.  It  was  a 
habit  of  the  General  to  walk  through  the  trenches 
on  rounds  of  inspection,  unattended  by  any  of  his 
staff.  The  Irishman,  being  new  in  the  regiment, 
had  never  seen  the  General  before,  so  when  he  came 
across  him  alone  in  a  communication  trench,  he 
promptly  put  him  under  arrest.  Brigadier- 
generals  wear  a  red  band  around  their  caps. 


Gas  Attacks  and  Spies  203 

Next  day  we  passed  the  Irishman  tied  to  the 
wheel  of  a  limber,  the  beginning  of  his  sentence 
of  twenty-one  days,  Field  Punishment  No.  I. 
Never  before  have  I  seen  such  a  woebegone 
expression  on  a  man's  face. 

For  several  days,  Atwell  and  I  made  ourselves 
scarce  around  Brigade  Headquarters.  We  did 
not  want  to  meet  the  General. 

The  spy  was  never  caught. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  FIRING   SQUAD 

A  FEW  days  later  I  had  orders  to  report  back  to 
**  Divisional  Headquarters,  about  thirty  kilos 
behind  the  line.  I  reported  to  the  A.  P.  M.  (Assist- 
ant Provost  Marshal).  He  told  me  to  report  to 
billet  No.  78  for  quarters  and  rations. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  at  night  and  I  was 
tired  and  soon  fell  asleep  in  the  straw  of  the  billet. 
It  was  a  miserable  night  outside,  cold,  and  a 
drizzly  rain  was  falling. 

About  two  in  the  morning  I  was  awakened  by 
someone  shaking  me  by  the  shoulder.  Opening 
my  eyes  I  saw  a  Regimental  Sergeant-Major 
bending  over  me.  He  had  a  lighted  lantern  in 
his  right  hand.  I  started  to  ask  him  what  was 
the  matter,  when  he  put  his  finger  to  his  lips  for 
silence  and  whispered: 

"Get  on  your  equipment,  and,  without  any 
noise,  come  with  me." 

204 


The  Firing  Squad  205 

This  greatly  mystified  me,  but  I  obeyed  his 
order. 

Outside  of  the  billet,  I  asked  him  what  was  up, 
but  he  shut  me  up  with : 

11  Don't  ask  any  questions,  it's  against  orders. 
I  don't  know  myself." 

It  was  raining  like  the  mischief. 

We  splashed  along  a  muddy  road  for  about 
fifteen  minutes,  finally  stopping  at  the  entrance 
of  what  must  have  been  an  old  barn.  In  the 
darkness,  I  could  hear  pigs  grunting,  as  if  they  had 
just  been  disturbed.  In  front  of  the  door  stood 
an  officer  in  a  mack  (mackintosh).  The  R.  S.  M. 
went  up  to  him,  whispered  something,  and  then 
left.  This  officer  called  to  me,  asked  my  name, 
number  and  regiment,  at  the  same  time,  in  the 
light  of  a  lantern  he  was  holding,  making  a  nota- 
tion in  a  little  book. 

When  he  had  finished  writing,  he  whispered: 

''Go  into  that  billet  and  wait  orders,  and  no 
talking.  Understand? " 

I  stumbled  into  the  barn  and  sat  on  the  floor  in 
the  darkness.  I  could  see  no  one,  but  could  hear 
men  breathing  and  moving;  they  seemed  nervous 
and  restless.  I  know  I  was. 

During   my   wait,    three   other   men   entered. 


206  Over  the  Top 

Then  the  officer  poked  his  head  in  the  door  and 
ordered : 

"Fall  in,  outside  the  billet,  in  single  rank." 

We  fell  in,  standing  at  ease.  Then  he  com- 
manded. 

"Squad— f  Shun!    Number!" 

There  were  twelve  of  us. 

"Right  — Turn!       Left  — Wheel!       Quick  - 
March!"     And  away  we  went.     The  rain  was 
trickling  down  my  back  and  I  was  shivering  from 
the  cold. 

With  the  officer  leading,  we  must  have  marched 
over  an  hour,  plowing  through  the  mud  and 
occasionally  stumbling  into -a  shell  hole  in  the 
road,  when  suddenly  the  officer  made  a  left  wheel, 
and  we  found  ourselves  in  a  sort  of  enclosed 
courtyard. 

The  dawn  was  breaking  and  the  rain  had 
ceased. 

In  front  of  us  were  four  stacks  of  rifles,  three 
to  a  stack. 

The  officer  brought  us  to  attention  and  gave  the 
order  to  unpile  arms.  We  each  took  a  rifle. 
Giving  us  "Stand  at  ease,"  in  a  nervous  and 
shaky  voice,  he  informed : 

"Men,  you  are  here  on  a  very  solemn  duty. 


The  Firing  Squad  207 

You  have  been  selected  as  a  firing  squad  for  the 
execution  of  a  soldier,  who,  having  been  found 
guilty  of  a  grievous  crime  against  King  and 
Country,  has  been  regularly  and  duly  tried  and 
sentenced  to  be  shot  at  3.28  A.M.  this  date.  This 
sentence  has  been  approved  by  the  reviewing 
authority  and  ordered  carried  out.  It  is  our  duty 
to  carry  on  with  the  sentence  of  the  court. 

"  There  are  twelve  rifles,  one  of  which  contains  a 
blank  cartridge,  the  other  eleven  containing  ball 
cartridges.  Every  man  is  expected  to  do  his 
duty  and  fire  to  kill.  Take  your  orders  from  me. 
Squad— 'Shun!" 

We  came  to  attention.  Then  he  left.  My 
heart  was  of  lead  and  my  knees  shook. 

After  standing  at  "Attention"  for  what  seemed 
a  week,  though  in  reality  it  could  not  have  been 
over  five  minutes,  we  heard  a  low  whispering  in 
our  rear  and  footsteps  on  the  stone  flagging  of  the 
courtyard. 

Our  officer  reappeared  and  in  a  low,  but  firm 
voice,  ordered : 

"About— Turn!" 

We  turned  about.  In  the  gray  light  of  dawn,  a 
few  yards  in  front  of  me,  I  could  make  out  a 
brick  wall.  Against  this  wall  was  a  dark  form 


208  Over  the  Top 

with  a  white  square  pinned  on  its  breast.  We 
were  supposed  to  aim  at  this  square.  To  the 
right  of  the  form  I  noticed  a  white  spot  on  the 
wall.  This  would  be  my  target. 

"Ready!    Aim!    Fire!" 

The  dark  form  sank  into  a  huddled  heap. 
My  bullet  sped  on  its  way,  and  hit  the  whitish 
spot  on  the  wall;  I  could  see  the  splinters  fly. 
Someone  else  had  received  the  rifle  containing  the 
blank  cartridge,  but  my  mind  was  at  ease,  there 
was  no  blood  of  a  Tommy  on  my  hands. 

"  Order— Arms!  About— Turn!  Pile—Arms! 
Stand— Clear." 

The  stacks  were  re-formed. 

"  Quick— March !  Right— Wheel ! "  and  we  left 
the  scene  of  execution  behind  us. 

It  was  now  daylight.  After  marching  about 
five  minutes,  we  were  dismissed  with  the  following 
instructions  from  the  officer  in  command: 

"Return,  alone,  to  your  respective  companies, 
and  remember,  no  talking  about  this  affair,  or 
else  it  will  go  hard  with  the  guilty  ones." 

We  needed  no  urging  to  get  away.  I  did  not 
recognize  any  of  the  men  on  the  firing  squad, 
even  the  officer  was  a  stranger  to  me. 

The  victim's  relations  and  friends  in  Blighty  will 


The  Firing  Squad  209 

never  know  that  he  was  executed;  they  will  be 
under  the  impression  that  he  died  doing  his  bit 
for  King  and  Country. 

In  the  public  casualty  lists  his  name  will  appear 
under  the  caption  "Accidentally  Killed/*  or 
"Died/1 

The  day  after  the  execution  I  received  orders 
to  report  back  to  the  line,  and  to  keep  a  still 
tongue  in  my  head. 

Executions  are  a  part  of  the  da}7's  work  but  the 
part  we  hated  most  of  all,  I  think — certainly  the 
saddest.  The  British  War  Department  is  thought 
by  many  people  to  be  composed  of  rigid  regulations 
all  wound  around  with  red  tape.  But  it  has  a 
heart,  and  one  of  the  evidences  of  this  is  the  con- 
siderate way  in  which  an  execution  is  concealed 
and  reported  to  the  relative  of  the  unfortunate 
man.  They  never  know  the  truth.  He  is  listed 
in  the  bulletins  as  among  the  "accidentally 
killed." 

In  the  last  ten  years  I  have  several  times  read 
stories  in  magazines  of  cowards  changing,  in  a 
charge,  to  heroes.  I  used  to  laugh  at  it.  It 
seemed  easy  for  story- writers  but  I  said,  "Men 
aren't  made  that  way."  But  over  in  France 
I  learned  once  that  the  streak  of  yellow  can  turn 
14 


2i o  Over  the  Top 

all  white.  I  picked  up  the  story,  bit  by  bit,  from 
the  Captain  of  the  Company,  the  sentries  who 
guarded  the  poor  fellow,  as  well  as  from  my  own 
observations.  At  first  I  did  not  realize  the 
whole  of  his  story,  but  after  a  week  of  investigation 
it  stood  out  as  clear  in  my  mind  as  the  mountains 
of  my  native  West  in  the  spring  sunshine.  It 
impressed  me  so  much  that  I  wrote  it  all  down  in 
rest  billets  on  odd  scraps  of  paper.  The  inci- 
dents are,  as  I  say,  every  bit  true ;  the  feelings  of  the 
man  are  true, — I  know  from  all  I  underwent  in  the 
fighting  over  in  France. 

We  will  call  him  Albert  Lloyd.  That  wasn't 
his  name,  but  it  will  do: 

Albert  Lloyd  was  what  the  world  terms  a 
coward. 

In  London  they  called  him  a  slacker 

His  country  had  been  at  war  nearly  eighteen 
months,  and  still  he  was  not  in  khaki. 

He  had  no  good  reason  for  not  enlisting,  being 
alone  in  the  world,  having  been  educated  in  an 
Orphan  Asylum,  and  there  being  no  one  dependent 
upon  him  for  support.  He  had  no  good  position 
to  lose,  and  there  was  no  sweetheart  to  tell  him 
with  her  lips  to  go,  while  her  eyes  pleaded  for  him 
to  stay. 


The  Firing  Squad  211 

Every  time  he  saw  a  recruiting  sergeant,  he'd 
slink  around  the  corner  out  of  sight,  with  a  terrible 
fear  gnawing  at  his  heart.  When  passing  the 
big  recruiting  posters,  and  on  his  way  to  business 
and  back  he  passed  many,  he  would  pull  down  his 
cap  and  look  the  other  way,  to  get  away  from  that 
awful  finger  pointing  at  him,  under  the  caption, 
"Your  King  and  Country  Need  You";  or  the 
boring  eyes  of  Kitchener,  which  burned  into  his 
very  soul,  causing  him  to  shudder. 

Then  the  Zeppelin  raids — during  them,  he  used 
to  crouch  in  a  corner  of  his  boarding-house  cellar, 
whimpering  like  a  whipped  puppy  and  calling 
upon  the  Lord  to  protect  him. 

Even  his  landlady  despised  him,  although  she 
had  to  admit  that  he  was  "good  pay." 

He  very  seldom  read  the  papers,  but  one 
momentous  morning,  the  landlady  put  the  morn- 
ing paper  at  his  place  before  he  came  down  to 
breakfast.  Taking  his  seat,  he  read  the  flaring 
headline,  "Conscription  Bill  Passed,"  and  nearly 
fainted.  Excusing  himself,  he  stumbled  up- 
stairs to  his  bedroom,  with  the  horror  of  it  gnawing 
into  his  vitals. 

Having  saved  up  a  few  pounds,  he  decided  not 
to  leave  the  house,  and  to  sham  sickness,  so  he 


212  Over  the  Top 

stayed  in  his  room  and  had  the  landlady  serve 
his  meals  there. 

Everytime  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  he 
trembled  all  over,  imagining  it  was  a  policeman 
who  had  come  to  take  him  away  to  the  army. 

One  morning  his  fears  were  realized.  Sure 
enough  there  stood  a  policeman  with  the  fatal 
paper.  Taking  it  in  his  trembling  hand,  he 
read  that  he,  Albert  Lloyd,  was  ordered  to  re- 
port himself  to  the  nearest  recruiting  station  for 
physical  examination.  He  reported  immediately, 
because  he  was  afraid  to  disobey. 

The  doctor  looked  with  approval  upon  Lloyd's 
six  feet  of  physical  perfection,  and  thought  what 
a  fine  guardsman  he  would  make,  but  examined 
his  heart  twice  before  he  passed  him  as  "physically 
fit" ;  it  was  beating  so  fast. 

From  the  recruiting  depot  Lloyd  was  taken, 
with  many  others,  in  charge  of  a  sergeant,  to  the 
training  depot  at  Aldershot,  where  he  was  given 
an  outfit  of  khaki,  and  drew  his  other  equipment. 
He  made  a  fine-looking  soldier,  except  for  the 
slight  shrinking  in  his  shoulders,  and  the  hunted 
look  in  his  eyes. 

At  the  training  depot  it  does  not  take  long  to 
find  out  a  man's  character,  and  Lloyd  was  promptly 


The  Firing  Squad  213 

dubbed  "  Windy."  In  the  English  Army,  "windy" 
means  cowardly. 

The  smallest  recruit  in  the  barracks  looked  on 
him  with  contempt,  and  was  not  slow  to  show 
it  in  many  ways. 

Lloyd  was  a  good  soldier,  learned  quickly, 
obeyed  every  order  promptly,  never  groused  at  the 
hardest  fatigues.  He  was  afraid  to.  He  lived 
in  deadly  fear  of  the  officers  and  "Non-Corns" 
over  him.  They  also  despised  him. 

One  morning  about  three  months  after  his 
enlistment,  Lloyd's  company  was  paraded,  and 
the  names  picked  for  the  next  draft  to  France 
were  read.  When  his  name  was  called,  he  did 
not  step  out  smartly,  two  paces  to  the  front,  and 
answer  cheerfully,  "Here,  sir,"  as  the  others  did. 
He  just  fainted  in  ranks,  and  was  carried  to 
barracks  amid  the  sneers  of  the  rest. 

That  night  was  an  agony  of  misery  to  him.  He 
could  not  sleep.  Just  cried  and  whimpered  in 
his  bunk,  because  on  the  morrow  the  draft  was 
to  sail  for  France,  where  he  would  see  death  on  all 
sides,  and  perhaps  be  killed  himself.  On  the 
steamer,  crossing  the  Channel,  he  would  have 
jumped  overboard  to  escape,  but  was  afraid  of 
drowning. 


214  Over  the  Top 

Arriving  in  France,  he  and  the  rest  were  hud- 
dled into  cattle  cars.  On  the  side  of  each  appeared 
in  white  letters,  "Chevaux  8,  Hommes  40."  After 
hours  of  bumping  over  the  uneven  French  road 
beds  they  arrived  at  the  training  base  of  Rouen. 

At  this  place  they  were  put  through  a  week's 
rigid  training  in  trench  warfare.  On  the  morning 
of  the  eighth  day,  they  paraded  at  ten  o'clock, 

and  were  inspected  and  passed  by  General  H , 

then  were  marched  to  the  Quartermaster's,  to 
draw  their  gas  helmets  and  trench  equipment. 

At  four  in  the  afternoon,  they  were  again 
hustled  into  cattle  cars.  This  time,  the  journey 
lasted  two  days.  They  disembarked  at  the  town 
of  Fr6vent,  and  could  hear  a  distant  dull  booming. 
With  knees  shaking,  Lloyd  asked  the  Sergeant 
what  the  noise  was,  and  nearly  dropped  when  the 
Sergeant  replied  in  a  somewhat  bored  tone : 

"Oh,  them's  the  guns  up  the  line.  We'll  be 
up  there  in  a  couple  o'  days  or  so.  Don't  worry, 
my  laddie,  you'll  see  more  of  'em  than  you  want 
before  you  get  'ome  to  Blighty  again,  that  is,  if 
you're  lucky  enough  to  get  back.  Now  lend  a 
hand  there  unloadin'  them  cars,  and  quit  that 
everlastin'  shakin'.  I  believe  yer  scared."  The 
last  with  a  contemptuous  sneer. 


The  Firing  Squad  215 

They  marched  ten  kilos,  full  pack,  to  a  little 
dilapidated  village,  and  the  sound  of  the  guns 
grew  louder,  constantly  louder. 

The  village  was  full  of  soldiers  who  turned  out 
to  inspect  the  new  draft,  the  men  who  were  shortly 
to  be  their  mates  in  the  trenches,  for  they  were 
going  "up  the  line"  on  the  morrow,  to  "take 
over"  their  certain  sector  of  trenches. 

The  draft  was  paraded  in  front  of  Battalion 
Headquarters,  and  the  men  were  assigned  to 
companies. 

Lloyd  was  the  only  man  assigned  to  "D"  Com- 
pany. Perhaps  the  officer  in  charge  of  the  draft 
had  something  to  do  with  it,  for  he  called  Lloyd 
aside,  and  said : 

"Lloyd,  you  are  going  to  a  new  company.  No 
one  knows  you.  Your  bed  will  be  as  you  make 
it,  so  for  God's  sake,  brace  up  and  be  a  man. 
I  think  you  have  the  stuff  in  you,  my  boy,  so  good- 
bye, and  the  best  of  luck  to  you." 

The  next  day  the  battalion  took  over  their 
part  of  the  trenches.  It  happened  to  be  a  very 
quiet  day.  The  artillery  behind  the  lines  was 
still,  except  for  an  occasional  shell  sent  over  to 
let  the  Germans  know  the  gunners  were  not 
asleep. 


216  Over  the  Top 

In  the  darkness,  in  single  file,  the  Company 
slowly  wended  their  way  down  the  communication 
trench  to  the  front  line.  No  one  noticed  Lloyd's 
white  and  drawn  face. 

After  they  had  relieved  the  Company  in  the 
trenches,  Lloyd,  with  two  of  the  old  company 
men,  was  put  on  guard  in  one  of  the  traverses. 
Not  a  shot  was  fired  from  the  German  lines,  and 
no  one  paid  any  attention  to  him  crouched  on  the 
firing  step. 

On  the  first  time  in,  a  new  recruit  is  not  required 
to  stand  with  his  head  ''over  the  top."  He  only 
"sits  it  out, "  while  the  older  men  keep  watch. 

At  about  ten  o'clock,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  thought 
hell  had  broken  loose,  and  crouched  and  shivered 
up  against  the  parapet.  Shells  started  bursting, 
as  he  imagined,  right  in  their  trench,  when  in 
fact  they  were  landing  about  a  hundred  yards 
in  rear  of  them,  in  the  second  lines. 

One  of  the  older  men  on  guard,  turning  to  his 
mate,  said : 

"There  goes  Fritz  with  those  damned  trench 
mortars  again.  It's  about  time  our  artillery 
'taped'  them,  and  sent  over  a  few.  Well,  I'll 
be  damned,  where 's  that  blighter  of  a  draft  man 
gone  to?  There's  his  rifle  leaning  against  the 


The  Firing  Squad  217 

parapet.  He  must  have  legged  it.  Just  keep 
your  eye  peeled,  Dick,  while  I  report  it  to  the 
Sergeant.  I  wonder  if  the  fool  knows  he  can  be 
shot  for  such  tricks  as  leavin'  his  post." 

Lloyd  had  gone.  When  the  trench  mortars 
opened  up,  a  maddening  terror  seized  him  and  he 
wanted  to  run,  to  get  away  from  that  horrible 
din,  anywhere  to  safety.  So  quietly  sneaking 
around  the  traverse,  he  came  to  the  entrance  of  a 
communication  trench,  and  ran  madly  and  blindly 
down  it,  running  into  traverses,  stumbling  into 
muddy  holes,  and  falling  full  length  over  trench 
grids. 

Groping  blindly,  with  his  arms  stretched  out  in 
front  of  him,  he  at  last  came  out  of  the  trench  into 
the  village,  or  what  used  to  be  a  village,  before 
the  German  artillery  razed  it. 

Mixed  with  his  fear,  he  had  a  peculiar  sort  of 
cunning,  which  whispered  to  him  to  avoid  all 
sentries,  because  if  they  saw  him  he  would  be 
sent  back  to  that  awful  destruction  in  the  front 
line,  and  perhaps  be  killed  or  maimed.  The 
thought  made  him  shudder,  the  cold  sweat  coming 
out  in  beads  on  his  face. 

On  his  left,  in  the  darkness,  he  could  make 
out  the  shadowy  forms  of  trees;  crawling  on  his 


218  Over  the  Top 

hands  and  knees,  stopping  and  crouching  with 
fear  at  each  shell-burst,  he  finally  reached  an  old 
orchard,  and  cowered  at  the  base  of  a  shot-scarred 
apple-tree. 

He  remained  there  all  night,  listening  to  the 
sound  of  the  guns  and  ever  praying,  praying  that 
his  useless  life  would  be  spared. 

As  dawn  began  to  break,  he  could  discern 
little  dark  objects  protruding  from  the  ground  all 
about  him.  Curiosity  mastered  his  fear  and  he 
crawled  to  one  of  the  objects,  and  there,  in  the 
uncertain  light,  he  read  on  a  little  wooden  cross: 

"Pte.  H.  S.  Wheaton,  No.  1670,  ist  London 
Regt.  R.  F.  Killed  in  action,  April  25,  1916. 
R.  I.  P."  (Rest  in  Peace). 

When  it  dawned  on  him  that  he  had  been 
hiding  all  night  in  a  cemetery,  his  reason  seemed 
to  leave  him,  and  a  mad  desire  to  be  free  from  it 
all  made  him  rush  madly  away,  falling  over  little 
wooden  crosses,  smashing  some  and  trampling 
others  under  his  feet. 

In  his  flight,  he  came  to  an  old  French  dugout, 
half  caved  in,  and  partially  filled  with  slimy  and 
filthy  water. 

Like  a  fox  being  chased  by  the  hounds,  he 
ducked  into  this  hole,  and  threw  himself  on  a 


The  Firing  Squad  219 

pile  of  old  empty  sandbags,  wet  and  mildewed. 
Then— unconsciousness. 

On  the  next  day,  he  came  to;  far  distant  voices 
sounded  in  his  ears.  Opening  his  eyes,  in  the 
entrance  of  the  dugout  he  saw  a  Corporal  and 
two  men  with  fixed  bayonets. 

The  Corporal  was  addressing  him: 

"Get  up,  you  white-livered  blighter!  Curse 
you  and  the  day  you  ever  joined  "D"  Company, 
spoiling  their  fine  record !  It'll  be  you  up  against 
the  wall,  and  a  good  job  too.  Get  a  hold  of  him, 
men,  and  if  he  makes  a  break,  give  him  the  bayo- 
net, and  send  it  home,  the  cowardly  sneak.  Come 
on,  you,  move,  we've  been  looking  for  you  long 
enough." 

Lloyd,  trembling  and  weakened  by  his  long 
fast,  tottered  out,  assisted  by  a  soldier  on  each 
side  of  him. 

They  took  him  before  the  Captain,  but  could 
get  nothing  out  of  him  but : 

"For  God's  sake,  sir,  don't  have  me  shot, 
don't  have  me  shot!" 

The  Captain,  utterly  disgusted  with  him,  sent 
him  under  escort  to  Division  Headquarters  for  trial 
by  court-martial,  charged  with  desertion  under  fire. 

They  shoot  deserters  in  France. 


220  Over  the  Top 

During  his  trial,  Lloyd  sat  as  one  dazed,  and 
could  put  nothing  forward  in  his  defence,  only  an 
occasional  ''Don't  have  me  shot!" 

His  sentence  was  passed:  "To  be  shot  at  3:38 
o'clock  on  the  morning  of  May  18,  1916."  This 
meant  that  he  had  only  one  more  day  to  live. 

He  did  not  realize  the  awfulness  of  his  sentence, 
his  brain  seemed  paralyzed.  He  knew  nothing  of 
his  trip,  under  guard,  in  a  motor  lorry  to  the  sand- 
bagged guardroom  in  the  village,  where  he  was 
dumped  on  the  floor  and  left,  while  a  sentry 
with  a  fixed  bayonet  paced  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  entrance. 

Bully  beef,  water,  and  biscuits  were  left  beside 
him  for  his  supper. 

The  sentry,  seeing  that  he  ate  nothing,  came 
inside  and  shook  him  by  the  shoulder,  saying  in 
a  kind  voice: 

"Cheero,  laddie,  better  eat  something.  You'll 
feel  better.  Don't  give  up  hope.  You'll  be 
pardoned  before  morning.  I  know  the  way  they 
run  these  things.  They're  only  trying  to  scare 
you,  that's  all.  Come  now,  that's  a  good  lad,  eat 
something.  It'll  make  the  world  look  different 
to  you." 

The  good-hearted  sentry  knew  he  was  lying 


The  Firing  Squad  221 

about  the  pardon.  He  knew  nothing  short  of  a 
miracle  could  save  the  poor  lad. 

Lloyd  listened  eagerly  to  his  sentry's  words, 
and  believed  them.  A  look  of  hope  came  into  his 
eyes,  and  he  ravenously  ate  the  meal  beside  him. 

In  about  an  hour's  time,  the  Chaplain  came  to 
see  him,  but  Lloyd  would  have  none  of  him.  He 
wanted  no  parson;  he  was  to  be  pardoned. 

The  artillery  behind  the  lines  suddenly  opened 
up  with  everything  they  had.  An  intense  bom- 
bardment of  the  enemy's  lines  had  commenced. 
The  roar  of  the  guns  was  deafening.  Lloyd's 
fears  came  back  with  a  rush,  and  he  cowered  on  the 
earthen  floor  with  his  hands  over  his  face. 

The  sentry,  seeing  his  position,  came  in  and 
tried  to  cheer  him  by  talking  to  him : 

"Never  mind  them  guns,  boy,  they  won't  hurt 
you.  They  are  ours.  We  are  giving  the  '  Boches ' 
a  dose  of  their  own  medicine.  Our  boys  are  going 
over  the  top  at  dawn  of  the  morning  to  take  their 
trenches.  We'll  give  'em  a  taste  of  cold  steel 
with  their  sausages  and  beer.  You  just  sit  tight 
now  until  they  relieve  you.  I'll  have  to  go  now, 
lad,  as  it's  nearly  time  for  my  relief,  and  I  don't 
want  them  to  see  me  a-talkin'  with  you.  So 
long,  laddie,  cheero." 


222  Over  the  Top 

With  this,  the  sentry  resumed  the  pacing  of  his 
post.  In  about  ten  minutes'  time  he  was  relieved, 
and  a  "D"  Company  man  took  his  place. 

Looking  into  the  guardhouse,  the  sentry  noticed 
the  cowering  attitude  of  Lloyd,  and,  with  a  sneer, 
said  to  him: 

"Instead  of  whimpering  in  that  corner,  you 
ought  to  be  saying  your  prayers.  It's  bally 
conscripts  like  you  what's  spoilin'  our  record. 
We've  been  out  here  nigh  onto  eighteen  months, 
and  you're  the  first  man  to  desert  his  post.  The 
whole  Battalion  is  laughin'  and  pokin'  fun  at 
'  D '  Company,  bad  luck  to  you !  but  you  won't 
get  another  chance  to  disgrace  us.  They'll  put 
your  lights  out  in  the  mornin'." 

After  listening  to  this  tirade,  Lloyd,  in  a  faltering 
voice,  asked:  "They  are  not  going  to  shoot  me, 
are  they?  Why,  the  other  sentry  said  they'd 
pardon  me.  For  God's  sake — don't  tell  me  I'm 
to  be  shot!"  and  his  voice  died  away  in  a  sob. 

"Of  course,  they're  going  to  shoot  you.  The 
other  sentry  was  jest  a-kiddin'  you.  Jest  like  old 
Smith.  Always  a-tryin'  to  cheer  some  one.  You 
ain't  got  no  more  chance  o'  bein'  pardoned  than 
I  have  of  gettin'  to  be  Colonel  of  my  'Batt.'  " 

When  the  fact  that  all  hope  was  gone  finally 


The  Firing  Squad  223 

entered  Lloyd's  brain,  a  calm  seemed  to  settle 
over  him,  and  rising  to  his  knees,  with  his  arms 
stretched  out  to  heaven,  he  prayed,  and  all  of  his 
soul  entered  into  the  prayer: 

"Oh,  good  and  merciful  God,  give  me  strength 
to  die  like  a  man !  Deliver  me  from  this  coward's 
death.  Give  me  a  chance  to  die  like  my  mates 
in  the  fighting  line,  to  die  fighting  for  my  country. 
I  ask  this  of  thee." 

A  peace,  hitherto  unknown,  came  to  him,  and 
he  crouched  and  cowered  no  more,  but  calmly 
waited  the  dawn,  ready  to  go  to  his  death.  The 
shells  were  bursting  all  around  the  guardroom, 
but  he  hardly  noticed  them. 

While  waiting  there,  the  voice  of  the  sentry, 
singing  in  a  low  tone,  came  to  him.  He  was 
singing  the  chorus  of  the  popular  trench  ditty: 

"I  want  to  go  home,  I  want  to  go  home. 
I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  trenches  no  more. 
Where  the  'whizzbangs'  and  'sausages'  roar  galore. 
Take  me  over  the  sea,  where  the  Allemand  can't 

get  at  me. 
Oh  my,  I  don't  want  to  die!    I  want  to  go  home/' 

Lloyd  listened  to  the  words  with  a  strange 
interest,  and  wondered  what  kind  of  a  home  he 


224  Over  the  Top 

would  go  to  across  the  Great  Divide.  It  would 
be  the  only  home  he  had  ever  known. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  great  rushing  through 
the  air,  a  blinding  flash,  a  deafening  report,  and  the 
sandbag  walls  of  the  guardroom  toppled  over, 
and  then — blackness. 

When  Lloyd  recovered  consciousness,  he  was 
lying  on  his  right  side,  facing  what  used  to  be  the 
entrance  of  the  guardroom.  Now,  it  was  only 
a  jumble  of  rent  and  torn  sandbags.  His  head 
seemed  bursting.  He  slowly  rose  on  his  elbow, 
and  there  in  the  east  the  dawn  was  breaking. 
But  what  was  that  mangled  shape  lying  over  there 
among  the  sandbags?  Slowly  dragging  himself 
to  it,  he  saw  the  body  of  the  sentry.  One  look 
was  enough  to  know  that  he  was  dead.  The 
soldier's  head  was  missing.  The  sentry  had  had 
his  wish  gratified.  He  had  "gone  home."  He 
was  safe  at  last  from  the  "whizzbangs"  and  the 
Allemand. 

Like  a  flash  it  came  to  Lloyd  that  he  was  free. 
Free  to  go  "over  the  top"  with  his  Company. 
Free  to  die  like  a  true  Briton  fighting  for  his 
King  and  Country.  A  great  gladness  and  warmth 
came  over  him.  Carefully  stepping  over  the 
body  of  the  sentry,  he  started  on  a  mad  race  down 


The  Firing  Squad  225 

the  ruined  street  of  the  village,  amid  the  bursting 
shells,  minding  them  not,  dodging  through  or 
around  hurrying  platoons  on  their  way  to  also 
go  "over  the  top."  Coming  to  a  communication 
trench  he  could  not  get  through.  It  was  blocked 
with  laughing,  cheering,  and  cursing  soldiers. 
Climbing  out  of  the  trench,  he  ran  wildly  along 
the  top,  never  heeding  the  rain  of  machine-gun 
bullets  and  shells,  not  even  hearing  the  shouts  of 
the  officers,  telling  him  to  get  back  into  the  trench. 
He  was  going  to  join  his  Company  who  were  in  the 
front  line.  He  was  going  to  fight  with  them. 
He,  the  despised  coward,  had  come  into  his  own. 

While  he  was  racing  along,  jumping  over  trenches 
crowded  with  soldiers,  a  ringing  cheer  broke  out  all 
along  the  front  line,  and  his  heart  sank.  He 
knew  he  was  too  late.  His  Company  had  gone 
over.  But  still  he  ran  madly.  He  would  catch 
them.  He  would  die  with  them. 

Meanwhile  his  Company  had  gone  "over." 
They,  with  the  other  companies  had  taken  the 
first  and  second  German  trenches,  and  had  pushed 
steadily  on  to  the  third  line.  "D"  Company, 
led  by  their  Captain,  the  one  who  had  sent  Lloyd 
to  Division  Headquarters  for  trial,  charged  with 
desertion,  had  pushed  steadily  forward  until  they 
is 


226  Over  the  Top 

found  themselves  far  in  advance  of  the  rest  of  the 
attacking  force.  " Bombing  out"  trench  after 
trench,  and  using  their  bayonets,  they  came  to  a 
German  communication  trench,  which  ended 
in  a  blindsap,  and  then  the  Captain,  and  what  was 
left  of  his  men,  knew  they  were  in  a  trap.  They 
would  not  retire.  "D"  Company  never  retired, 
and  they  were  "D"  Company.  Right  in  front  of 
them  they  could  see  hundreds  of  Germans  pre- 
paring to  rush  them  with  bomb  and  bayonet. 
They  would  have  some  chance  if  ammunition 
and  bombs  could  reach  them  from  the  rear. 
Their  supply  was  exhausted,  and  the  men  realized 
it  would  be  a  case  of  dying  as  bravely  as  possible, 
or  making  a  run  for  it.  But  "D"  Company 
would  not  run.  It  was  against  their  traditions 
and  principles. 

The  Germans  would  have  to  advance  across 

an  open  space  of  three  to  four  hundred  yards 

before  they  could  get  within  bombing  distance  of 

the  trench,  and  then  it  would  be  all  their  own  way. 

Turning  to  his  Company,  the  Captain  said: 

11  Men,  it's  a  case  of  going  West  for  us.     We  are 

out  of  ammunition  and  bombs,  and  the  '  Boches ' 

have  us  in  a  trap.     They  will  bomb  us  out.     Our 

bayonets  are  useless  here.    We  will  have  to  go 


The  Firing  Squad  227 

over  and  meet  them,  and  it's  a  case  of  thirty  to 
one,  so  send  every  thrust  home,  and  die  like  the 
men  of  '  D '  Company  should.  When  I  give  the 
word,  follow  me,  and  up  and  at  them.  Give  them 
hell!  God,  if  we  only  had  a  machine  gun,  we 
could  wipe  them  out !  Here  they  come,  get  ready, 


men." 


Just  as  he  finished  speaking,  the  welcome 
"  pup-pup "  of  a  machine  gun  in  their  rear  rang 
out,  and  the  front  line  of  the  onrushing  German 
seemed  to  melt  away.  They  wavered,  but  once 
again  came  rushing  onward.  Down  went  their 
second  line.  The  machine  gun  was  taking  an 
awful  toll  of  lives.  Then  again  they  tried  to 
advance,  but  the  machine  gun  mowed  them 
down.  Dropping  their  rifles  and  bombs,  they 
broke  and  fled  in  a  wild  rush  back  to  their  trench, 
amid  the  cheers  of  "D"  Company.  They  were 
forming  again  for  another  attempt,  when  in  the 
rear  of  "D"  Company  came  a  mighty  cheer. 
The  ammunition  had  arrived  and  with  it  a  bat- 
talion of  Scotch  to  reinforce  them.  They  were 
saved.  The  unknown  machine  gunner  had  come 
to  the  rescue  in  the  nick  of  time. 

With  the  reinforcements,  it  was  an  easy  task 
to  take  the  third  German  line. 


228  Over  the  Top 

After  the  attack  was  over,  the  Captain  and  three 
of  his  non-commissioned  officers,  wended  their 
way  back  to  the  position  where  the  machine  gun 
had  done  its  deadly  work.  He  wanted  to  thank 
the  gunner  in  the  name  of  "D"  Company  for  his 
magnificent  deed.  They  arrived  at  the  gun, 
and  an  awful  sight  met  their  eyes. 

Lloyd  had  reached  the  front  line  trench,  after 
his  Company  had  left  it.  A  strange  company  was 
nimbly  crawling  up  the  trench  ladders.  They 
were  reinforcements  going  over.  They  were 
Scotties,  and  they  made  a  magnificent  sight  in 
their  brightly  colored  kilts  and  bare  knees. 

Jumping  over  the  trench,  Lloyd  raced  across 
"No  Man's  Land,"  unheeding  the  rain  of  bullets, 
leaping  over  dark:  forms  on  the  ground,  some 
of  which  lay  still,  while  others  called  out  to  him 
as  he  speeded  past. 

He  came  to  the  German  front  line,  but  it  was 
deserted,  except  for  heaps  of  dead  and  wounded 
— a  grim  tribute  to  the  work  of  his  Company,  good 
old  "D"  Company.  Leaping  trenches,  and  gasp- 
ing for  breath,  Lloyd  could 'see  right  ahead  of  him 
his  Company  in  a  dead-ended  sap  of  a  communica- 
tion trench,  and  across  the  open,  away  in  front  of 
them,  a  mass  of  Germans  preparing  for  a  charge. 


The  Firing  Squad  229 

Why  didn't  "D"  Company  fire  on  them?  Why 
were  they  so  strangely  silent?  What  were  they 
waiting  for?  Then  he  knew — their  ammunition 
was  exhausted. 

But  what  was  that  on  his  right?  A  machine 
gun.  Why  didn't  it  open  fire  and  save  them? 
He  would  make  that  gun's  crew  do  their  duty. 
Rushing  over  to  the  gun,  he  saw  why  it  had  not 
opened  fire.  Scattered  around  its  base  lay  six  still 
forms.  They  had  brought  their  gun  to  consolidate 
the  captured  position,  but  a  German  machine 
gun  had  decreed  they  would  never  fire  again. 

Lloyd  rushed  to  the  gun,  and  grasping  the 
traversing  handles,  trained  it  on  the  Germans. 
He  pressed  the  thumb  piece,  but  only  a  sharp 
click  was  the  result.  The  gun  was  unloaded. 
Then  he  realized  his  helplessness.  He  did  not 
know  how  to  load  the  gun.  Oh,  why  hadn't  he 
attended  the  machine-gun  course  in  England? 
He'd  been  offered  the  chance,  but  with  a  blush  of 
shame  he  remembered  that  he  had  been  afraid. 
The  nickname  of  the  machine  gunners  had 
frightened  him.  They  were  called  the  "Suicide 
Club."  Now,  because  of  this  fear,  his  Company 
would  be  destroyed,  the  men  of  "D"  Company 
would  have  to  die,  because  he,  Albert  Lloyd,  had 


230  Over  the  Top 

been  afraid  of  a  name.  In  his  shame  he  cried 
like  a  baby.  Anyway  he  could  die  with  them, 
and,  rising  to  his  feet,  he  stumbled  over  the  body 
of  one  of  the  gunners,  who  emitted  a  faint  moan. 
A  gleam  of  hope  flashed  through  him.  Perhaps 
this  man  could  tell  him  how  to  load  the  gun. 
Stooping  over  the  body,  he  gently  shook  it,  and 
the  soldier  opened  his  eyes.  Seeing  Lloyd,  he 
closed  them  again,  and  in  a  faint  voice  said : 

"Get  away,  you  blighter,  leave  me  alone.  I 
don't  want  any  coward  around  me." 

The  words  cut  Lloyd  like  a  knife,  but  he  was 
desperate.  Taking  the  revolver  out  of  the  holster 
of  the  dying  man,  he  pressed  the  cold  muzzle 
to  the  soldier's  head,  and  replied : 

"Yes,  it  is  Lloyd,  the  coward  of  Company 
'D, '  but  so  help  me  God,  if  you  don't  tell  me 
how  to  load  that  gun,  I'll  put  a  bullet  through 
your  brain!" 

A  sunny  smile  came  over  the  countenance  of  the 
dying  man,  and  he  said  in  a  faint  whisper: 

"Godd  old  boy!  I  knew  you  wouldn't  dis- 
grace our  Company " 

Lloyd  interposed,  "For  God's  sake,  if  you  want 
to  save  that  Company  you  are  so  proud  of,  tell 
me  how  to  load  that  damned  gun!" 


The  Firing  Squad  231 

r  As  if  reciting  a  lesson  in  school,  the  soldier 
replied  in  a  weak,  singsong  voice:  " Insert  tag 
end  of  belt  in  feed  block,  with  left  hand  pull  belt 
left  front.  Pull  crank  handle  back  on  roller,  let 
go,  and  repeat  motion.  Gun  is  now  loaded. 
To  fire,  raise  automatic  safety  latch,  and  press 
thumb  piece.  Gun  is  now  firing.  If  gun  stops, 
ascertain  position  of  crank  handle " 

But  Lloyd  waited  for  no  more.  With  wild 
joy  at  his  heart,  he  took  a  belt  from  one  of  the 
ammunition  boxes  lying  beside  the  gun,  and 
followed  the  dying  man's  instructions.  Then  he 
pressed  the  thumb  piece,  and  a  burst  of  fire  re- 
warded his  efforts.  The  gun  was  working. 

Training  it  on  the  Germans,  he  shouted  for  joy 
as  their  front  rank  went  down. 

Traversing  the  gun  back  and  forth  along  the 
mass  of  Germans,  he  saw  them  break  and  run  back 
to  the  cover  of  their  trench,  leaving  their  dead 
and  wounded  behind.  He  had  saved  his  Company, 
he,  Lloyd,  the  coward,  had  "done  his  bit."  Re- 
leasing the  thumb  piece,  he  looked  at  the  watch 
on  his  wrist.  He  was  still  alive,  and  the  hands 
pointed  to  "3:38,"  the  time  set  for  his  death  by 
the  court. 

"Ping!" — a  bullet  sang  through  the  air,  and 


232  Over  the  Top 

Lloyd  fell  forward  across  the  gun.  A  thin  trickle 
of  blood  ran  down  his  face  from  a  little,  black 
round  hole  in  his  forehead. 

The  sentence  of  the  court  had  been  "duly 
carried  out." 

The  Captain  slowly  raised  the  limp  form  droop- 
ing over  the  gun,  and,  wiping  the  blood  from  the 
white  face,  recognized  it  as  Lloyd,  the  coward  of 
"D"  Company.  Reverently  covering  the  face 
with  his  handkerchief,  he  turned  to  his  "non- 
coms,"  and  in  a  voice  husky  with  emotion, 
addressed  them: 

"Boys,  it's  Lloyd  the  deserter.  He  has  re- 
deemed himself,  died  the  death  of  a  hero.  Died 
that  his  mates  might  live." 

That  afternoon,  a  solemn  procession  wended 
its  way  toward  the  cemetery.  In  the  front  a 
stretcher  was  carried  by  two  Sergeants.  Across 
the  stretcher  the  Union  Jack  was  carefully  spread. 
Behind  the  stretcher  came  a  Captain  and  forty- 
three  men,  all  that  were  left  of  "D"  Company. 

Arriving  at  the  cemetery,  they  halted  in  front 
of  an  open  grave.  All  about  them,  wooden  crosses 
were  broken  and  trampled  into  the  ground. 

A  grizzled  old  Sergeant,  noting  this  destruction, 


The  Firing  Squad  233 

muttered  under  his  breath:  "Curse  the  cowardly 
blighter  who  wrecked  those  crosses!  If  I  could 
only  get  these  two  hands  around  his  neck,  his 
trip  West  would  be  a  short  one." 

The  corpse  on  the  stretcher  seemed  to  move, 
or  it  might  have  been  the  wind  blowing  the  folds 
of  the  Union  Jack. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

PREPARING  FOR  THE  BIG  PUSH 

DE JOINING  Atwell  after  the  execution  I  had 
1  ^  a  hard  time  trying  to  keep  my  secret  from 
him.  I  think  I  must  have  lost  at  least  ten  pounds 
worrying  over  the  affair. 

Beginning  at  seven  in  the  evening  it  was  our 
duty  to  patrol  all  communication  and  front-line 
trenches,  making  note  of  unusual  occurrences, 
and  arresting  anyone  who  should,  to  us,  appear 
to  be  acting  in  a  suspicious  manner.  We  slept 
during  the  day. 

Behind  the  lines  there  was  great  activity, 
supplies  and  ammunition  pouring  in,  and  long 
columns  of  troops  constantly  passing.  We  were 
preparing  for  the  big  offensive,  the  forerunner  of 
the  Battle  of  the  Somme  or  "Big  Push." 

The  never-ending  stream  of  men,  supplies, 
ammunition,  and  guns  pouring  into  the  British 
lines  made  a  mighty  spectacle,  one  that  cannot  be 

234 


Preparing  for  the  Big  Push  235 

described.  It  has  to  be  witnessed  with  your  own 
eyes  to  appreciate  its  vastness. 

At  our  part  of  the  line  the  influx  of  supplies 
never  ended.  It  looked  like  a  huge  snake  slowly 
crawling  forward,  never  a  hitch  or  break,  a 
wonderful  tribute  to  the  system  and  efficiency  of 
Great  Britain's  "contemptible  little  army"  of 
five  millions  of  men. 

Huge  fifteen-inch  guns  snaked  along,  foot  by 
foot,  by  powerful  steam  tractors.  Then  a  long 
line  of  "four  point  five*'  batteries,  each  gun  drawn 
by  six  horses,  then  a  couple  of  "nine  point  two" 
howitzers  pulled  by  immense  caterpillar  engines. 

When  one  of  these  caterpillars  would  pass  me 
with  its  mighty  monster  in  tow,'  a  flush  of  pride 
would  mount  to  my  face,  because  I  could  plainly 
read  on  the  name  plate,  "Made  in  U.  S.  A.," 
and  I  would  remember  that  if  I  wore  a  name 
plate  it  would  also  read,  "Made  in  U.  S.  A." 
Then  I  would  stop  to  think  how  thin  and  straggly 
that  mighty  stream  would  be  if  all  the  "Made  in 
U.  S.  A."  parts  of  it  were  withdrawn. 

Then  would  come  hundreds  of  limbers  and 
"G.  S. "  wagons  drawn  by  sleek,  well-fed  mules, 
ridden  by  sleek,  well-fed  men,  ever  smiling, 
although  grimy  with  sweat  and  covered  with  the 


236  Over  the  Top 

fine,  white  dust  of  the  marvellously  well-made 
French  roads. 

What  a  discouraging  report  the  German  air 
men  must  have  taken  back  to  their  Division  Com- 
manders, and  this  stream  is  slowly  but  surely 
getting  bigger  and  bigger  every  day,  and  the  pace 
is  always  the  same.  No  slower,  no  faster,  but 
ever  onward,  ever  forward. 

Three  weeks  before  the  Big  Push  of  July  1st — 
as  the  Battle  of  the  Somme  has  been  called — 
started,  exact  duplicates  of  the  German  trenches 
were  dug  about  thirty  kilos  behind  our  lines. 
The  layout  of  the  trenches  were  taken  from  aero- 
plane photographs  submitted  by  the  Royal 
Flying  Corps.  The  trenches  were  correct  to  the 
foot;  they  showed  dugouts,  saps,  barbed  wire 
defences,  and  danger  spots. 

Battalions  that  were  to  go  over  in  the  first 
waves  were  sent  back  for  three  days  to  study  these 
trenches,  engage  in  practice  attacks,  and  have 
night  maneuvers.  Each  man  was  required  to 
make  a  map  of  the  trenches  and  familiarize 
himself  with  the  names  and  location  of  the  parts 
his  battalion  was  to  attack. 

In  the  American  army  non-commissioned  officers 
are  put  through  a  course  of  map  making  or  road 


Preparing  for  the  Big  Push  237 

sketching,  and  during  my  six  years'  service  in  the 
United  States  Cavalry,  I  had  plenty  of  practice 
in  this  work,  therefore  mapping  these  trenches 
was  a  comparatively  easy  task  for  me.  Each  man 
had  to  submit  his  map  to  the  Company  Com- 
mander to  be  passed  upon,  and  I  was  lucky  enough 
to  have  mine  selected  as  being  sufficiently  authen- 
tic to  use  in  the  attack. 

No  photographs  or  maps  are  allowed  to  leave 
France,  but  in  this  case  it  appealed  to  me  as  a 
valuable  souvenir  of  the  Great  War  and  I  managed 
to  smuggle  it  through.  At  this  time  it  carries  no 
military  importance  as  the  British  lines,  I  am 
happy  to  say,  have  since  been  advanced  beyond 
this  point,  so  it  has  been  reproduced  in  this  book 
without  breaking  any  regulation  or  cautions  of  the 
British  Army. 

The  whole  attack  was  rehearsed  and  rehearsed 
until  we  heartily  cursed  the  one  who  had  conceived 
the  idea. 

The  trenches  were  named  according  to  a  system 
which  made  it  very  simple  for  Tommy  to  find, 
even  in  the  dark,  any  point  in  the  German  lines. 

These  imitation  trenches,  or  trench  models, 
were  well  guarded  from  observation  by  numerous 
allied  planes  which  constantly  circled  above  them.  - 


238  w  Over  the  Top 

No  German  aeroplane  could  approach  within 
observing  distance.  A  restricted  area  was  main- 
tained and  no  civilian  was  allowed  within  three 
miles,  so  we  felt  sure  that  we  had  a  great  surprise 
in  store  for  Fritz. 

When  we  took  over  the  front  line  we  received 
an  awful  shock.  The  Germans  displayed  sign- 
boards over  the  top  of  their  trench  showing  the 
names  that  we  had  called  their  trenches.  The 
signs  read  "Fair, "  "Fact, "  "Fate, "  and  "Fancy" 
and  so  on,  according  to  the  code  names  on  our 
map.  Then  to  rub  it  in,  they  hoisted  some  more 
signs  which  read,  "When  are  you  coming  over?" 
or  "Come  on,  we  are  ready,  stupid  English." 

It  is  still  a  mystery  to  me  how  they  obtained 
this  knowledge.  There  had  been  no  raids  or 
prisoners  taken,  so  it  must  have  been  the  work 
of  spies  in  our  own  lines. 

Three  or  four  days  before  the  Big  Push  we 
tried  to  shatter  Fritz's  nerves  by  feint  attacks, 
and  partially  succeeded  as  the  official  reports  of 
July  ist  show. 

Although  we  were  constantly  bombarding  their 
lines  day  and  night,  still  we  fooled  the  Germans 
several  times.  This  was  accomplished  by  throw- 
ing an  intense  barrage  into  his  lines, — then  using 


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Map  of  German  Trenches.     Hebuterd 


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Preparing  for  the  Big  Push  239 

smoke  shells  we  would  put  a  curtain  of  white 
smoke  across  No  Man's  Land,  completely  obstruct- 
ing his  view  of  our  trenches,  and  would  raise  our 
curtain  of  fire  as  if  in  an  actual  attack.  All  down 
our  trenches  the  men  would  shout  and  cheer,  and 
Fritz  would  turn  loose  with  machine-gun,  rifle, 
and  shrapnel  fire,  thinking  we  were  coming  over. 

After  three  or  four  of  these  dummy  attacks  his 
nerves  must  have  been  near  the  breaking  point. 

On  June  24,  1916,  at  9:40  in  the  morning  our 
guns  opened  up,  and  hell  was  let  loose.  The  din 
was  terrific,  a  constant  boom-boom-boom  in 
your  ear. 

At  night  the  sky  was  a  red  glare.  Our  bombard- 
ment had  lasted  about  two  hours  when  Fritz 
started  replying.  Although  we  were  sending 
over  ten  shells  to  his  one,  our  casualties  were 
heavy.  There  was  a  constant  stream  of  stretchers 
coming  out  of  the  communication  trenches  and 
burial  parties  were  a  common  sight. 

In  the  dugouts  the  noise  of  the  guns  almost 
hurt.  You  had  the  same  sensation  as  when  riding 
on  the  Subway  you  enter  the  tube  under  the  river 
going  to  Brooklyn — a  sort  of  pressure  on  the  ear 
drums,  and  the  ground  constantly  trembling. 

The    roads    behind    the    trenches    were    very 


240  Over  the  Top 

dangerous  because  Boche  shrapnel  was  constantly 
bursting  over  them.  We  avoided  these  danger- 
ous spots  by  crossing  through  open  fields. 

The  destruction  in  the  German  lines  was  awful 
and  I  really  felt  sorry  for  them  because  I  realized 
how  they  must  be  clicking  it. 

From  our  front-line  trench,  every  now  and  again, 
we  could  hear  sharp  whistle  blasts  in  the  German- 
trenches.  These  blasts  were  the  signals  for 
stretcher  bearers,  and  meant  the  wounding  or 
killing  of  some  German  in  the  service  of  his 
Fatherland. 

Atwell  and  I  had  a  tough  time  of  it,  patrolling 
the  different  trenches  at  night,  but  after  awhile 
got  used  to  it. 

My  old  outfit,  the  Machine  Gun  Company,  was 
stationed  in  huge  elephant  dugouts  about  four 
hundred  yards  behind  the  front-line  trench — 
they  were  in  reserve.  Occasionally  I  would  stop 
in  their  dugout  and  have  a  confab  with  my  former 
mates.  Although  we  tried  to  be  jolly,  still,  there 
was  a  lurking  feeling  of  impending  disaster. 
Each  man  was  wondering,  if,  after  the  slogan, 
"Over  the  top  with  the  best  of  luck,"  had  been 
sounded,  would  he  still  be  alive  or  would  he  be 
lying  "somewhere  in  France."  In  an  old  dilapi- 


Preparing  for  the  Big  Push  241 

dated  house,  the  walls  of  which  were  scarred 
with  machine-gun  bullets,  No.  3  section  of  the 
Machine  Gun  Company  had  its  quarters.  The 
Company's  cooks  prepared  the  meals  in  this 
billet.  On  the  fifth  evening  of  the  bombardment 
a  German  eight-inch  shell  registered  a  direct  hit 
on  the  billet  and  wiped  out  ten  men  who  were 
asleep  in  the  supposedly  bomb-proof  cellar. 
They  were  buried  the  next  day  and  I  attended  the 

funeral. 
xd 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ALL  QUIET  (?)  ON  THE  WESTERN  FRONT 

A  T  Brigade  Headquarters  I  happened  to  over- 
**  hear  a  conversation  between  our  G.  0.  C. 
(General  Officer  Commanding)  and  the  Divisional 
Commander.  From  this  conversation  I  learned 
that  we  were  to  bombard  the  German  lines  for 
eight  days,  and  on  the  first  of  July  the  "Big 
Push"  was  to  commence. 

In  a  few  days  orders  were  issued  to  that  effect, 
and  it  was  common  property  all  along  the  line. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  eighth  day  of  our 
strafeing,  Atwell  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  front- 
line trench  smoking  fags  and  making  out  our 
reports  of  the  previous  night's  tour  of  the  trenches, 
which  we  had  to  turn  in  to  headquarters  the 
following  day,  when  an  order  was  passed  down 
the  trench  that  Old  Pepper  requested  twenty 
volunteers  to  go  over  on  a  trench  raid  that  night 
to  try  and  get  a  few  German  prisoners  for  informa- 

242 


All  Quiet  (?)  on  the  Western  Front  243 

tion  purposes.  I  immediately  volunteered  for  this 
job,  and  shook  hands  with  Atwell,  and  went  to  the 
rear  to  give  my  name  to  the  officers  in  charge  of 
the  raiding  party. 

I  was  accepted,  worse  luck. 

At  9 : 40  that  night  we  reported  to  the  Brigade 
Headquarters  dugout  to  receive  instructions  from 
Old  Pepper. 

After  reaching  this  dugout  we  lined  up  in  a 
semicircle  around  him,  and  he  addressed  us  as 
follows : 

"All  I  want  you  boys  to  do  is  to  go  over  to  the 
German  lines  to-night,  surprise  them,  secure  a 
couple  of  prisoners,  and  return  immediately.  Our 
artillery  has  bombarded  that  section  of  the  line 
for  two  days  and  personally  I  believe  that  that 
part  of  the  German  trench  is  unoccupied,  so  just 
get  a  couple  of  prisoners  and  return  as  quickly  as 
possible." 

The  Sergeant  on  my  right,  in  an  undertone, 
whispered  to  me: 

"Say,  Yank,  how  are  we  going  to  get  a  couple  of 
prisoners  if  the  old  fool  thinks  'personally  that 
that  part  of  the  trench  is  unoccupied,' — sounds 
kind  of  fishy,  doesn't  it  mate?" 

I  had  a  funny  sinking  sensation  in  my  stomach, 


244  Over  the  Top 

and  my  tin  hat  felt  as  if  it  weighed  about  a  ton 
and  my  enthusiasm  was  melting  away.  Old 
Pepper  must  have  heard  the  Sergeant  speak 
because  he  turned  in  his  direction  and  in  a  thunder- 
ing voice  asked : 

"What  did  you  say?" 

The  Sergeant  with  a  scared  look  on  his  face  and 
his  knees  trembling,  smartly  saluted  and  answered : 

"Nothing,  sir." 

Old  Pepper  said: 

"Well,  don't  say  it  so  loudly  the  next  time." 

Then  Old  Pepper  continued: 

"In  this  section  of  the  German  trenches  there 
are  two  or  three  machine  guns  which  our  artillery, 
in  the  last  two  or  three  days,  has  been  unable  to 
tape.  These  guns  command  the  sector  where  two 
of  our  communication  trenches  join  the  front 
line,  and  as  the  brigade  is  to  go  over  the  top  to- 
morrow morning  I  want  to  capture  two  or  three 
men  from  these  guns'  crews,  and  from  them  I  may 
be  able  to  obtain  valuable  information  as  to  the 
exact  location  of  the  guns,  and  our  artillery  will 
therefore  be  able  to  demolish  them  before  the 
attack,  and  thus  prevent  our  losing  a  lot  of  men 
while  using  these  communication  trenches  to 
bring  up  reinforcements. " 


t     All  Quiet  (?)  on  the  Western  Front  245 

These  were  the  instructions  he  gave  us: 
"Take  off  your  identification  disks,  strip  your 
uniforms  of  all  numerals,  insignia,  etc.,  leave  your 
papers  with  your  captains,  because  I  don't  want 
the  Boches  to  know  what  regiments  are  against 
them  as  this  would  be  valuable  information  to 
them  in  our  attack  to-morrow  and  I  don't  want 
any  of  you  to  be  taken  alive.  What  I  want  is  two 
prisoners  and  if  I  get  them  I  have  a  way  which  will 
make  them  divulge  all  necessary  information  as 
to  their  guns.  You  have  your  choice  of  two 
weapons — you  may  carry  your  'persuaders'  or 
your  knuckle  knives,  and  each  man  will  arm 
himself  with  four  Mills  bombs,  these  to  be  used 
only  in  case  of  emergency." 

A  persuader  is  Tommy's  nickname  for  a  club 
carried  by  the  bombers.  It  is  about  two  feet 
long,  thin  at  one  end  and  very  thick  at  the  other. 
The  thick  end  is  studded  with  sharp  steel  spikes, 
while  through  the  center  of  the  club  there  is  a 
nine-inch  lead  bar,  to  give  it  weight  and  balance. 
When  you  get  a  prisoner  all  you  have  to  do  is 
just  stick  this  club  up  in  front  of  him,  and  believe 
me,  the  prisoner's  patriotism  for  Deutschland 
ueber  Alles  fades  away  and  he  very  willingly 
obeys  the  orders  of  his  captor.  If,  however,  the 


246  Over  the  Top 

prisoner  gets  high-toned  and  refuses  to  follow 
you,  simply  "persuade"  him  by  first  removing 
his  tin  hat,  and  then — well,  the  use  of  the  lead 
weight  in  the  persuader  is  demonstrated,  and 
Tommy  looks  for  another  prisoner. 

The  knuckle  knife  is  a  dagger  affair,  the  blade 
of  which  is  about  eight  inches  long  with  a  heavy 
steel  guard  over  the  grip.  This  guard  is  studded 
with  steel  projections.  At  night  in  a  trench, 
which  is  only  about  three  to  four  feet  wide,  it 
makes  a  very  handy  weapon.  One  punch  in  the 
face  generally  shatters  a  man's  jaw  and  you  can 
get  him  with  the  knife  as  he  goes  down. 

Then  we  had  what  we  called  our  "come-alongs." 
These  are  strands  of  barbed  wire  about  three 
feet  long,  made  into  a  noose  at  one  end;  at  the 
other  end,  the  barbs  are  cut  off  and  Tommy  slips 
his  wrist  through  a  loop  to  get  a  good  grip  on  the 
wire.  If  the  prisoner  wants  to  argue  the  point, 
why  just  place  the  large  loop  around  his  neck 
and  no  matter  if  Tommy  wishes  to  return  to  his 
trenches  at  the  walk,  trot,  or  gallop,  Fritz  is 
perfectly  agreeable  to  maintain  Tommy's  rate  of 
speed. 

We  were  ordered  to  black  our  faces  and  hands. 
For  this  reason :  at  night,  the  English  and  Germans 


All  Quiet  (?)  on  the  Western  Front  247 

use  what  they  call  star  shells,  a  sort  of  rocket 
affair.  These  are  fired  from  a  large  pistol  about 
twenty  inches  long,  which  is  held  over  the  sand- 
bag parapet  of  the  trench,  and  discharged  into  the 
air.  These  star  shells  attain  a  height  of  about 
sixty  feet,  and  a  range  of  from  fifty  to  seventy- 
five  yards.  When  they  hit  the  ground  they  explode, 
throwing  out  a  strong  calcium  light  which  lights 
up  the  ground  in  a  circle  of  a  radius  of  between 
ten  to  fifteen  yards.  They  also  have  a  parachute 
star  shell  which,  after  reaching  a  height  of  about 
sixty  feet,  explodes.  A  parachute  unfolds  and 
slowly  floats  to  the  ground,  lighting  up  a  large 
circle  in  No  Man's  Land.  The  official  name  of 
the  star  shell  is  a  "Very-light."  Very-lights  are 
used  to  prevent  night  surprise  attacks  on  the 
trenches.  If  a  star  shell  falls  in  front  of  you,  or 
between  you  and  the  German  lines,  you  are  safe 
from  detection,  as  the  enemy  cannot  see  you 
through  the  bright  curtain  of  light.  But  if  it 
falls  behind  you  and,  as  Tommy  says,  "you  get 
into  the  star  shell  zone,"  then  the  fun  begins; 
you  have  to  lie  flat  on  your  stomach  and  remain 
absolutely  motionless  until  the  light  of  the  shell 
dies  out.  This  takes  anywhere  from  forty  to 
seventy  seconds.  If  you  haven't  time  to  fall  to 


248  Over  the  Top 

the  ground  you  must  remain  absolutely  still  in 
whatever  position  you  were  in  when  the  light 
exploded;  it  is  advisable  not  to  breathe,  as  Fritz 
has  an  eye  like  an  eagle  when  he  thinks  you  are 
knocking  at  his  door.  When  a  star  shell  is 
burning  in  Tommy's  rear  he  can  hold  his  breath 
for  a  week. 

You  blacken  your  face  and  hands  so  that  the 
light  from  the  star  shells  will  not  reflect  on  your 
pale  face.  In  a  trench  raid  there  is  quite  sufficient 
reason  for  your  face  to  be  pale.  If  you  don't 
believe  me,  try  it  just  once. 

Then  another  reason  for  blacking  your  face  and 
hands  is  that,  after  you  have  entered  the  German 
trench  at  night,  "white  face"  means  Germans, 
" black  face"  English.  Coming  around  a  traverse 
you  see  a  white  face  in  front  of  you.  With  a 
prayer  and  wishing  Fritz  "the  best  o'  luck," 
you  introduce  him  to  your  "persuader"  or  knuckle 
knife. 

A  little  later  we  arrived  at  the  communication 
trench  named  Whiskey  Street,  which  led  to  the 
fire  trench  at  the  point  we  were  to  go  over  the 
top  and  out  in  front. 

In  our  rear  were  four  stretcher  bearers  and  a 
Corporal  of  the  R.  A.  M.  C.  carrying  a  pouch 


All  Quiet  (?)  on  the  Western  Front  249 

containing  medicines  and  first-aid  appliances. 
Kind  of  a  grim  reminder  to  us  that  our  expedition 
was  not  going  to  be  exactly  a  picnic.  The  order 
of  things  was  reversed.  In  civilian  life  the  doctors 
generally  come  first,  with  the  undertakers  tagging 
in  the  rear  and  then  the  insurance  man,  but  in  our 
case,  the  undertakers  were  leading,  with  the 
doctors  trailing  behind,  minus  the  insurance 
adjuster. 

The  presence  of  the  R.  A.  M.  C.  men  did  not 
seem  to  disturb  the  raiders,  because  many  a  joke, 
made  in  an  undertone,  was  passed  along  the 
winding  column,  as  to  who  would  be  first  to  take  a 
ride  on  one  of  the  stretchers.  This  was  generally 
followed  by  a  wish  that,  if  you  were  to  be  the 
one,  the  wound  would  be  a  "  cushy  Blighty 


one." 


The  stretcher  bearers,  no  doubt,  were  hoping 
that,  if  they  did  have  to  carry  anyone  to  the 
rear,  he  would  be  small  and  light.  Perhaps  they 
looked  at  me  when  wishing,  because  I  could  feel 
an  uncomfortable,  boring  sensation  between  my 
shoulder  blades.  They  got  their  wish  all  right. 

Going  up  this  trench,  about  every  sixty  yards 
or  so  we  would  pass  a  lonely  sentry,  who  in  a 
whisper  would  wish  us  "the  best  o'  luck,  mates." 


250  Over  the  Top 

We  would  blind  at  him  under  our  breaths ;  that 
Jonah  phrase  to  us  sounded  very  ominous. 

Without  any  casualties  the  minstrel  troop 
arrived  in  Suicide  Ditch,  the  front-line  trench. 
Previously,  a  wiring  party  of  the  Royal  Engineers 
had  cut  a  lane  through  our  barbed  wire  to  enable 
us  to  get  out  into  No  Man's  Land. 

Crawling  through  this  lane,  our  party  of 
twenty  took  up  an  extended-order  formation 
about  one  yard  apart.  We  had  a  tap  code  arranged 
for  our  movements  while  in  No  Man's  Land, 
because  for  various  reasons  it  is  not  safe  to  carry 
on  a  heated  conversation  a  few  yards  in  front  of 
Fritz's  lines.  The  officer  was  on  the  right  of  the 
line,  while  I  was  on  the  extreme  left.  Two  taps 
from  the  right  would  be  passed  down  the  line 
until  I  received  them,  then  I  would  send  back  one 
tap.  The  officer,  in  receiving  this  one  tap,  would 
know  that  his  order  had  gone  down  the  whole 
line,  had  been  understood,  and  that  the  party  was 
ready  to  obey  the  two-tap  signal.  Two  taps  meant 
that  we  were  to  crawl  forward  slowly — and 
believe  me,  very  slowly — for  five  yards,  and  then 
halt  to  await  further  instructions.  Three  taps 
meant,  when  you  arrived  within  striking  distance 
of  the  German  trench,  rush  it  and  inflict  as  many 


All  Quiet  (?)  on  the  Western  Front  251 

casualties  as  possible,  secure  a  couple  of  prisoners, 
and  then  back  to  your  own  lines  with  the  speed 
clutch  open.  Four  taps  meant,  "I  have  gotten 
you  into  a  position  from  which  it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  extricate  you,  so  you  are  on  your  own. " 

After  getting  Tommy  into  a  mess  on  the 
western  front  he  is  generally  told  that  he  is  "on 
his  own."  This  means,  "Save  your  skin  in  any 
way  possible."  Tommy  loves  to  be  "on  his 
own"  behind  the  lines,  but  not  during  a  trench 
raid. 

The  star  shells  from  the  German  lines  were 
falling  in  front  of  us,  therefore  we  were  safe. 
After  about  twenty  minutes  we  entered  the  star 
shell  zone.  A  star  shell  from  the  German  lines 
fell  about  five  yards  in  the  rear  and  to  the  right 
of  me ;  we  hugged  the  ground  and  held  our  breath 
until  it  burned  out.  The  smoke  from  the  star 
shell  travelled  along  the  ground  and  crossed  over 
the  middle  of  our  line.  Some  Tommy  sneezed. 
The  smoke  had  gotten  up  his  nose.  We  crouched 
on  the  ground,  cursing  the  offender  under  our 
breath,  and  waited  the  volley  that  generally 
ensued  when  the  Germans  have  heard  a  noise  in 
No  Man's  Land.  Nothing  happened.  We  re- 
ceived two  taps  and  crawled  forward  slowly  for 


252  Over  the  Top 

five  yards;  no  doubt  the  officer  believed  what 
Old  Pepper  had  said,  "Personally  I  believe  that 
that  part  of  the  German  trench  is  unoccupied." 
By  being  careful  and  remaining  motionless  when 
the  star  shells  fell  behind  us,  we  reached  the  Ger- 
man barbed  wire  without  mishap.  Then  the  fun 
began.  I  was  scared  stiff  as  it  is  ticklish  work 
cutting  your  way  through  wire  when  about  thirty 
feet  in  front  of  you  there  is  a  line  of  Boches  looking 
out  into  No  Man's  Land  with  their  rifles  lying 
across  the  parapet,  straining  every  sense  to  see  or 
hear  what  is  going  on  in  No  Man's  Land;  because 
at  night,  Fritz  never  knows  when  a  bomb  with  his 
name  and  number  on  it  will  come  hurtling  through 
the  air,  aimed  in  the  direction  of  Berlin.  The 
man  on  the  right,  one  man  in  the  center,  and  myself 
on  the  extreme  left  were  equipped  with  wire 
cutters.  These  are  insulated  with  soft  rubber,  not 
because  the  German  wires  are  charged  with 
electricity,  but  to  prevent  the  cutters  rubbing 
against  the  barbed  wire  stakes,  which  are  of  iron, 
and  making  a  noise  which  may  warn  the  inmates 
of  the  trench  that  someone  is  getting  fresh  in  their 
front  yard.  There  is  only  one  way  to  cut  a  barbed 
wire  without  noise  and  through  costly  experience 
Tommy  has  become  an  expert  in  doing  this. 


All  Quiet  (?)  on  the  Western  Front  253 

You  must  grasp  the  wire  about  two  inches  from 
the  stake  in  your  right  hand  and  cut  between  the 
stake  and  your  hand. 

If  you  cut  a  wire  improperly,  a  loud  twang  will 
ring  out  on  the  night  air  like  the  snapping  of  a 
banjo  string.  Perhaps  this  noise  can  be  heard 
only  for  fifty  or  seventy-five  yards,  but  in 
Tommy's  mind  it  makes  a  loud  noise  in  Berlin. 

We  had  cut  a  lane  about  halfway  through  the 
wire  when,  down  the  center  of  our  line,  twang! 
went  an  improperly  cut  wire.  We  crouched  down, 
cursing  under  our  breath,  trembling  all  over,  our 
knees  lacerated  from  the  strands  of  the  cut 
barbed  wire  on  the  ground,  waiting  for  a  challenge 
and  the  inevitable  volley  of  rifle  fire.  Nothing 
happened.  I  suppose  the  fellow  who  cut  the 
barbed  wire  improperly  was  the  one  who  had 
sneezed  about  half  an  hour  previously.  What  we 
wished  him  would  never  make  his  new  year  a 
happy  one. 

The  officer,  in  my  opinion,  at  the  noise  of  the 
wire  should  have  given  the  four-tap  signal,  which 
meant,  "On  your  own,  get  back  to  your  trenches  as 
quickly  as  possible,"  but  again  he  must  have  relied 
on  the  spiel  that  Old  Pepper  had  given  us  in  the 
dugout,  "Personally  I  believe  that  that  part  of  the 


254  Over  the  Top 

German  trench  is  unoccupied. "  Anyway,  we  got 
careless,  but  not  so  careless  that  we  sang  patriotic 
songs  or  made  any  unnecessary  noise. 

During  the  intervals  of  falling  star  shells  we 
carried  on  with  our  wire  cutting  until  at  last  we 
succeeded  in  getting  through  the  German  barbed 
wire.  At  this  point  we  were  only  ten  feet  from  the 
German  trenches.  If  we  were  discovered,  we  were 
like  rats  in  a  trap.  Our  way  was  cut  off  unless  we 
ran  along  the  wire  to  the  narrow  lane  we  had  cut 
through.  With  our  hearts  in  our  mouths  we 
waited  for  the  three-tap  signal  to  rush  the  German 
trench.  Three  taps  had  gotten  about  halfway 
down  the  line  when  suddenly  about  ten  to  twenty 
German  star  shells  were  fired  all  along  the  trench 
and  landed  in  the  barbed  wire  in  rear  of  us, 
turning  night  into  day  and  silhouetting  us  against 
the  wall  of  light  made  by  the  flares.  In  the 
glaring  light  we  were  confronted  by  the  following 
unpleasant  scene. 

All  along  the  German  trench,  at  about  three- 
foot  intervals,  stood  a  big  Prussian  guardsman 
with  his  rifle  at  the  aim,  and  then  we  found  out 
why  we  had  not  been  challenged  when  the  man 
sneezed  and  the  barbed  wire  had  been  improperly 
cut.  About  three  feet  in  front  of  the  trench  they 


All  Quiet  (?)  on  the  Western  Front  255 

had  constructed  a  single  fence  of  barbed  wire  and 
we  knew  our  chances  were  one  thousand  to  one 
of  returning  alive.  We  could  not  rush  their 
trench  on  account  of  this  second  defence.  Then 
in  front  of  me  the  challenge,  "Halt, "  given  in 
English  rang  out,  and  one  of  the  finest  things 
I  have  ever  heard  on  the  western  front  took 
place. 

From  the  middle  of  our  line  some  Tommy 
answered  the  challenge  with,  "Aw,  go  to  hell." 
It  must  have  been  the  man  who  had  sneezed  or 
who  had  improperly  cut  the  barbed  wire ;  he  wanted 
to  show  Fritz  that  he  could  die  game.  Then  came 
the  volley.  Machine  guns  were  turned  loose  and 
several  bombs  were  thrown  in  our  rear.  The 
Boche  in  front  of  me  was  looking  down  his  sight. 
This  fellow  might  have,  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, been  handsome,  but  when  I  viewed  him 
from  the  front  of  his  rifle  he  had  the  goblins  of 
childhood  imagination  relegated  to  the  shade. 

Then  came  a  flash  in  front  of  me,  the  flare  of  his 
rifle — and  my  head  seemed  to  burst.  A  bullet  had 
hit  me  on  the  left  side  of  my  face  about  half  an 
inch  from  my  eye,  smashing  the  cheek  bones. 
I  put  my  hand  to  my  face  and  fell  forward,  biting 
the  ground  and  kicking  my  feet.  I  thought  I  was 


256  Over  the  Top 

dying,  but  do  you  know,  my  past  life  did  not 
unfold  before  me  the  way  it  does  in  novels. 

The  blood  was  streaming  down  my  tunic,  and 
the  pain  was  awful.  When  I  came  to  I  said  to 
myself,  "Emp,  old  boy,  you  belong  in  Jersey  City 
and  you'd  better  get  back  there  as  quickly  as 
possible. " 

The  bullets  were  cracking  overhead.  I  crawled 
a  few  feet  back  to  the  German  barbed  wire,  and 
in  a  stooping  position,  guiding  myself  by  the  wire, 
I  went  down  the  line  looking  for  the  lane  we  had 
cut  through.  Before  reaching  this  lane  I  came  to  a 
limp  form  which  seemed  like  a  bag  of  oats  hanging 
over  the  wire.  In  the  dim  light  I  could  see  that  its 
hands  were  blackened,  and  knew  it  was  the  body 
of  one  of  my  mates.  I  put  my  hand  on  his  head, 
the  top  of  which  had  been  blown  off  by  a  bomb. 
My  fingers  sank  into  the  hole.  I  pulled  my  hand 
back  full  of  blood  and  brains,  then  I  went  crazy 
with  fear  and  horror  and  rushed  along  the  wire 
until  I  came  to  our  lane.  I  had  just  turned  down 
tliis  lane  when  something  inside  of  me  seemed  to 
say,  "Look  around."  I  did  so;  a  bullet  caught 
me  on  the  left  shoulder.  It  did  not  hurt  much, 
just  felt  as  if  someone  had  punched  me  in  the  back, 
and  then  my  left  side  went  numb.  My  arm  was 


All  Quiet  (?)  on  the  Western  Front  257 

dangling  like  a  rag.  I  fell  forward  in  a  sitting 
position.  But  all  fear  had  left  me  and  I  was 
consumed  with  rage  and  cursed  the  German 
trenches.  With  my  right  hand  I  felt  in  my  tunic 
for  my  first-aid  or  shell  dressing.  In  feeling  over 
my  tunic  my  hand  came  in  contact  with  one  of  the 
bombs  which  I  carried.  Gripping  it,  I  pulled  the 
pin  out  with  my  teeth  and  blindly  threw  it  towards 
the  German  trench.  I  must  have  been  out  of  my 
head  because  I  was  only  ten  feet  from  the  trench 
and  took  a  chance  of  being  mangled.  If  the  bomb 
had  failed  to  go  into  the  trench  I  would  have  been 
blown  to  bits  by  the  explosion  of  my  own  bomb. 

By  the  flare  of  the  explosion  of  the  bomb,  which 
luckily  landed  in  their  trench,  I  saw  one  big 
Boche  throw  up  his  arms  and  fall  backwards, 
while  his  rifle  flew  into  the  air.  Another  one 
wilted  and  fell  forward  across  the  sandbags — 
then  blackness. 

Realizing  what  a  foolhardy  and  risky  thing  I 
had  done,  I  was  again  seized  with  a  horrible  fear. 
I  dragged  myself  to  my  feet  and  ran  madly  down 
the  lane  through  the  barbed  wire,  stumbling  over 
cut  wires,  tearing  my  uniform,  and  lacerating  my 
hands  and  legs.  Just  as  I  was  about  to  reach  No 
Man's  Land  again,  that  same  voice  seemed  to 

17 


358  Over  the  Top 

say,  "Turn  around."  I  did  so,  when,  " crack, " 
another  bullet  caught  me,  this  time  in  the  left 
shoulder  about  one  half  inch  away  from  the  other 
wound.  Then  it  was  taps  for  me.  The  lights 
went  out. 

When  I  came  to  I  was  crouching  in  a  hole  in 
No  Man's  Land.  This  shell  hole  was  about  three 
feet  deep,  so  that  it  brought  my  head  a  few  inches 
below  the  level  of  the  ground.  How  I  reached 
this  hole  I  will  never  know.  German  "  type- 
writers" were  traversing  back  and  forth  in  No 
Man's  Land,  the  bullets  biting  the  edge  of  my 
shell  hole  and  throwing  dirt  all  over  me. 

Overhead,  shrapnel  was  bursting.  I  could  hear 
the  fragments  slap  the  ground.  Then  I  went  out 
once  more.  When  I  came  to,  everything  was 
silence  and  darkness  in  No  Man's  Land.  I  was 
soaked  with  blood  and  a  big  flap  from  the  wound 
in  my  cheek  was  hanging  over  my  mouth.  The 
blood  running  from  this  flap  choked  me.  Out  of 
the  corner  of  my  mouth  I  would  try  and  blow  it 
back  but  it  would  not  move.  I  reached  for  my 
shell  dressing  and  tried,  with  one  hand,  to  bandage 
my  face  to  prevent  the  flow.  I  had  an  awful  horror 
of  bleeding  to  death  and  was  getting  very  faint. 
You  would  have  laughed  if  you  had  seen  my 


All  Quiet  (?)  on  the  Western  Front  259 

ludicrous  attempts  at  bandaging  with  one  hand. 
The  pains  in  my  wounded  shoulder  were  awful 
and  I  was  getting  sick  at  the  stomach.  I  gave  up 
the  bandaging  stunt  as  a  bad  job,  and  then  fainted. 
When  I  came  to,  hell  was  let  loose.  An  intense 
bombardment  was  on,  and  on  the  whole  my 
position  was  decidedly  unpleasant.  Then,  sud- 
denly, our  barrage  ceased.  The  silence  almost 
hurt,  but  not  for  long,  because  Fritz  turned  loose 
with  shrapnel,  machine  guns,  and  rifle  fire.  Then 
all  along  our  line  came  a  cheer  and  our  boys 
came  over  the  top  in  a  charge.  The  first  wave  was 
composed  of  "Jocks."  They  were  a  magnificent 
sight,  kilts  flapping  in  the  wind,  bare  knees 
showing,  and  their  bayonets  glistening.  In  the 
first  wave  that  passed  my  shell  hole,  one  of  the 
"Jocks,"  an  immense  fellow,  about  six  feet  two 
inches  in  height,  jumped  right  over  me.  On  the 
right  and  left  of  me  several  soldiers  in  colored  kilts 
were  huddled  on  the  ground,  then  over  came  the 
second  wave,  also  "Jocks."  One  young  Scottie, 
when  he  came  abreast  of  my  shell  hole,  leaped  into 
the  air,  his  rifle  shooting  out  of  his  hands,  landing 
about  six  feet  in  front  of  him,  bayonet  first,  and 
stuck  in  the  ground,  the  butt  trembling.  This 
impressed  me  greatly, 


260  Over  the  Top 

Right  now  I  can  see  the  butt  of  that  gun 
trembling.  The  Scottie  made  a  complete  turn 
in  the  air,  hit  the  ground,  rolling  over  twice,  each 
time  clawing  at  the  earth,  and  then  remained  still, 
about  four  feet  from  me,  in  a  sort  of  sitting  posi- 
tion. I  called  to  him,  "Are  you  hurt  badly, 
Jock?"  but  no  answer.  He  was  dead.  A  dark, 
red  smudge  was  coming  through  his  tunic  right 
under  the  heart.  The  blood  ran  down  his  bare 
knees,  making  a  horrible  sight.  On  his  right  side 
he  carried  his  water  bottle.  I  was  crazy  for  a 
drink  and  tried  to  reach  this,  but  for  the  life  of 
me  could  not  negotiate  that  four  feet.  Then  I 
became  unconscious.  When  I  woke  up  I  was  in  an 
advanced  first-aid  post.  I  asked  the  doctor  if  we 
had  taken  the  trench.  "We  took  the  trench  and 
the  wood  beyond,  all  right,"  he  said,  "and  you 
fellows  did  your  bit;  but,  my  lad,  that  was  thirty- 
six  hours  ago.  You  were  lying  in  No  Man's  Land 
in  that  bally  hole  for  a  day  and  a  half.  It's  a 
wonder  you  are  alive. "  He  also  told  me  that  out 
of  the  twenty  that  were  in  the  raiding  party, 
seventeen  were  killed.  The  officer  died  of  wounds 
in  crawling  back  to  our  trench  and  I  was  severely 
wounded,  but  one  fellow  returned  without  a 
scratch  without  any  prisoners.  No  doubt  this 


All  Quiet  (?)  on  the  Western  Front  261 

chap  was  the  one  who  had  sneezed  and  improperly 
cut  the  barbed  wire. 

In  the  official  communique  our  trench  raid  was 
described  as  follows : 

"All  quiet  on  the  Western  front,  excepting  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Gommecourt  Wood,  where 
one  of  our  raiding  parties  penetrated  into  the 
German  lines. " 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  we  had  no  use  for  our 
persuaders  or  come-alongs,  as  we  brought  back 
no  prisoners,  and  until  I  die  Old  Pepper's  words, 
"Personally  I  don't  believe  that  that  part  of  the 
German  trench  is  occupied,"  will  always  come  to 
me  when  I  hear  some  fellow  trying  to  get  away  with 
a  fishy  statement.  I  will  judge  it  accordingly. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

BLIGHTY 

FJROM  this  first-aid  post,  after  inoculating  me 
with  anti-tetanus  serum  to  prevent  lockjaw, 
I  was  put  into  an  ambulance  and  sent  to  a  tempo- 
rary hospital  behind  the  lines.  To  reach  this 
hospital  we  had  to  go  along  a  road  about  five  miles 
in  length.  This  road  was  under  shell  fire,  for  now 
and  then  a  flare  would  light  up  the  sky, — a  tre- 
mendous explosion, — and  then  the  road  seemed  to 
tremble.  We  did  not  mind,  though  no  doubt  some 
of  us  wished  that  a  shell  would  hit  us  and  end  our 
misery.  Personally,  I  was  not  particular.  It 
was  nothing  but  bump,  jolt,  rattle,  and  bang. 

Several  times  the  driver  would  turn  around  and 
give  us  a  "Cheero,  mates,  we'll  soon  be  there — " 
fine  fellows,  those  ambulance  drivers,  a  lot  of  them 
go  West  too. 

We  gradually  drew  out  of  the  fire  zone  and  pulled 
up  in  front  of  an  immense  dugout.  Stretcher- 


Blighty  263 

bearers  carried  me  down  a  number  of  steps  and 
placed  me  on  a  white  table  in  a  brightly  lighted 
room. 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Royal  Army  Medical  Corps 
removed  my  bandages  and  cut  off  my  tunic. 
Then  the  doctor,  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  took 
charge.  He  winked  at  me  and  I  winked  back,  and 
then  he  asked,  "How  do  you  feel,  smashed  up  a 
bit?" 

I  answered:  "I'm  all  right,  but  I'd  give  a  quid 
for  a  drink  of  Bass. " 

He  nodded  to  the  Sergeant  who  disappeared, 
and  I'll  be  darned  if  he  didn't  return  with  a  glass  of 
ale.  I  could  only  open  my  mouth  about  a  quarter 
of  an  inch,  but  I  got  away  with  every  drop  of  that 
ale.  It  tasted  just  like  Blighty,  and  that  is 
heaven  to  Tommy. 

The  doctor  said  something  to  an  orderly,  the 
only  word  I  could  catch  was  "chloroform,"  then 
they  put  some  kind  of  an  arrangement  over  my 
nose  and  mouth  and  it  was  me  for  dreamland. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  I  was  lying  on  a 
stretcher,  in  a  low  wooden  building.  Everywhere 
I  looked  I  saw  rows  of  Tommies  on  stretchers, 
some  dead  to  the  world,  and  the  rest  with  fags  in 


264  Over  the  Top 

The  main  topic  of  their  conversation  was  Blighty. 
Nearly  all  had  a  grin  on  their  faces,  except  those 
who  didn't  have  enough  face  left  to  grin  with. 
I  grinned  with  my  right  eye,  the  other  was  band- 
aged. 

Stretcher-bearers  came  in  and  began  to  carry  the 
Tommies  outside.  You  could  hear  the  chug  of  the 
engines  in  the  waiting  ambulances. 

I  was  put  into  a  Ford  with  three  others  and  away 
we  went  for  an  eighteen-mile  ride.  Keep  out  of  a 
Ford  when  you  are  wounded;  insist  on  walking, 
it'll  pay  you. 

I  was  on  a  bottom  stretcher.  The  lad  right 
across  from  me  was  smashed  up  something 
horrible. 

Right  above  me  was  a  man  from  the  Royal 
Irish  Rifles,  while  across  from  him  was  a 
Scotchman. 

We  had  gone  about  three  miles  when  I  heard 
the  death-rattle  in  the  throat  of  the  man  opposite. 
He  had  gone  to  rest  across  the  Great  Divide.  I 
think  at  the  time  I  envied  him. 

The  man  of  the  Royal  Irish  Rifles  had  had  his 
left  foot  blown  off,  the  jolting  of  the  ambulance 
over  the  rough  road  had  loosened  up  the  bandages 
on  his  foot,  and  had  started  it  bleeding  again. 


Blighty  965 

This  blood  ran  down  the  side  of  the  stretcher  and 
started  dripping.  I  was  lying  on  my  back,  too 
weak  to  move,  and  the  dripping  of  this  blood  got 
me  in  my  unbandaged  right  eye.  I  closed  my  eye 
and  pretty  soon  could  not  open  the  lid;  the  blood 
had  congealed  and  closed  it,  as  if  it  were  glued 
down. 

An  English  girl  dressed  in  khaki  was  driving  the 
ambulance,  while  beside  her  on  the  seat  was  a  Cor- 
poral of  the  R.  A.  M.  C.  They  kept  up  a  running 
conversation  about  Blighty  which  almost  wrecked 
my  nerves;  pretty  soon  from  the  stretcher  above 
me,  the  Irishman  became  aware  of  the  fact  that 
the  bandage  from  his  foot  had  become  loose;  it 
must  have  pained  him  horribly,  because  he  yelled 
in  a  loud  voice : 

"  If  you  don't  stop  this  bloody  death  wagon  and 
fix  this  damned  bandage  on  my  foot,  I  will  get  out 
and  walk." 

The  girl  on  the  seat  turned  around  and  in  a 
sympathetic  voice  asked,  "Poor  fellow,  are  you 
very  badly  wounded?" 

The  Irishman,  at  this  question,  let  out  a  howl  of 
indignation  and  answered,  "Am  I  very  badly 
wounded,  what  bloody  cheek;  no,  I'm  not  wounded, 
I've  only  been  kicked  by  a  canary  bird. " 


266  Over  the  Top 

The  ambulance  immediately  stopped,  and  the 
Corporal  came  to  the  rear  and  fixed  him  up,  and 
also  washed  out  my  right  eye.  I  was  too  weak  to 
thank  him,  but  it  was  a  great  relief.  Then  I  must 
have  become  unconscious,  because  when  I  regained 
my  senses,  the  ambulance  was  at  a  standstill,  and 
my  stretcher  was  being  removed  from  it. 

It  was  night,  lanterns  were  flashing  here  and 
there,  and  I  could  see  stretcher-bearers  hurrying 
to  and  fro.  Then  I  was  carried  into  a  hospital 
train. 

The  inside  of  this  train  looked  like  heaven  to  me, 
just  pure  white,  and  we  met  our  first  Red  Cross 
nurses;  we  thought  they  were  angels.  And  they 
were. 

Nice  little  soft  bunks  and  clean,  white  sheets. 

A  Red  Cross  nurse  sat  beside  me  during  the 
whole  ride  which  lasted  three  hours.  She  was 
holding  my  wrist ;  I  thought  I  had  made  a  hit,  and 
tried  to  tell  her  how  I  got  wounded,  but  she  would 
put  her  finger  to  her  lips  and  say,  "Yes,  I  know, 
but  you  mustn't  talk  now,  try  to  go  to  sleep,  it'll 
do  you  good,  doctor's  orders. "  Later  on  I  learned 
that  she  was  taking  my  pulse  every  few  minutes, 
as  I  was  very  weak  from  the  loss  of  blood  and  they 
expected  me  to  snuff  it,  but  I  didn't, 


I 


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I 

1 


Blighty  267 

From  the  train  we  went  into  ambulances  for  a 
short  ride  to  the  hospital  ship  Panama.  Another 
palace  and  more  angels.  I  don't  remember  the 
trip  across  the  channel. 

I  opened  my  eyes;  I  was  being  carried  on  a 
stretcher  through  lanes  of  people,  some  cheering, 
some  waving  flags,  and  others  crying.  The  flags 
were  Union  Jacks,  I  was  in  Southampton.  Blighty 
at  last.  My  stretcher  was  strewn  with  flowers, 
cigarettes,  and  chocolates.  Tears  started  to  run 
down  my  cheek  from  my  good  eye.  I  like  a  booby 
was  crying,  can  you  beat  it? 

Then  into  another  hospital  train,  a  five-hour 
ride  to  Paignton,  another  ambulance  ride,  and 
then  I  was  carried  into  Munsey  Ward  of  the  Ameri- 
can Women's  War  Hospital  and  put  into  a  real 
bed. 

This  real  bed  was  too  much  for  my  unstrung 
nerves  and  I  fainted. 

When  I  came  to,  a  pretty  Red  Cross  nurse  was 
bending  over  me,  bathing^my  forehead  with  cold 
water,  then  she  left  and  the  ward  orderly  placed  a 
screen  around  my  bed,  and  gave  me  a  much-needed 
bath  and  clean  pajamas.  Then  the  screen  was 
removed  and  a  bowl  of  steaming  soup  was  given 
me.  It  tasted  delicious. 


268  Over  the  Top 

Before  finishing  my  soup  the  nurse  came  back 
to  ask  me  my  name  and  number.  She  put  this 
information  down  in  a  little  book  and  then  asked : 

"Where  do  you  come  from?"  I  answered: 

"From  the  big  town  behind  the  Statue  of  Lib- 
erty ";  upon  hearing  this  she  started  jumping  up 
and  down,  clapping  her  hands,  and  calling  out  to 
three  nurses  across  the  ward: 

"Come  here,  girls — at  last  we  have  got  a  real 
live  Yankee  with  us. " 

They  came  over  and  besieged  me  with  questions, 
until  the  doctor  arrived.  Upon  learning  that  I  was 
an  American  he  almost  crushed  my  hand  in  his 
grip  of  welcome.  They  also  were  Americans,  and 
were  glad  to  see  me. 

The  doctor  very  tenderly  removed  my  bandages 
and  told  me,  after  viewing  my  wounds,  that  he 
would  have  to  take  me  to  the  operating  theater 
immediately.  Personally  I  didn't  care  what  was 
done  with  me. 

In  a  few  minutes,  four  orderlies  who  looked  like 
undertakers  dressed  in  white,  brought  a  stretcher 
to  my  bed  and  placing  me  on  it  carried  me  out  of 
the  ward,  across  a  courtyard  to  the  operating 
room  or  "pictures,"  as  Tommy  calls  it. 

I  don't  remember  having  the  anaesthetic  applied. 


After  the  Trench  Raid. 


Blighty  269 

When  I  came  to  I  was  again  lying  in  a  bed  in 
Munsey  Ward.  One  of  the  nurses  had  draped  a 
large  American  flag  over  the  head  of  the  bed,  and 
clasped  in  my  hand  was  a  smaller  flag,  and  it  made 
me  feel  good  all  over,  to  again  see  the  "Stars  and 
Stripes. " 

At  that  time  I  wondered  when  the  boys  in  the 
trenches  would  see  the  emblem  of  the  "land  of  the 
free  and  the  home  of  the  brave'*  beside  them,  doing 
its  bit  in  this  great  war  of  civilization. 
;  My  wounds  were  very  painful,  and  several  times 
at  night  I  would  dream  that  myriads  of  khaki- 
clothed  figures  would  pass  my  bed  and  each  would 
stop,  bend  over  me,  and  whisper,  "  The  best  of  luck, 
mate." 

Soaked  with  perspiration  I  would  awake  with  a 
cry,  and  the  night  nurse  would  come  over  and  hold 
my  hand.  This  awakening  got  to  be  a  habit  with 
me,  until  that  particular  nurse  was  transferred  to 
another  ward. 

In  three  weeks'  time,  owing  to  the  careful  treat- 
ment received,  I  was  able  to  sit  up  and  get  my 
bearings.  Our  ward  contained  seventy-five  pa- 
tients, ninety  per  cent,  of  which  were  surgical  cases. 
At  the  head  of  each  bed  hung  a  temperature  chart 
and  diagnosis  sheet.  Across  this  sheet  would  be 


270  Over  the  Top 

written  "  G.  S.  W. "  or  "  S.  W. "  the  former  meaning 
Gun  Shot  Wound  and  the  latter  Shell  Wound. 
The  "S.  W."  predominated,  especially  among  the 
Royal  Field  Artillery  and  Royal  Engineers. 

About  forty  different  regiments  were  represented 
and  many  arguments  ensued  as  to  the  respective 
fighting  ability  of  each  regiment.  The  rivalry 
was  wonderful.  A  Jock  arguing  with  an  Irishman, 
then  a  strong  Cockney  accent  would  butt  in  in  favor 
of  a  London  Regiment.  Before  long  a  Welshman, 
followed  by  a  member  of  a  Yorkshire  regiment,  and, 
perhaps,  a  Canadian  intrude  themselves  and  the 
argument  waxes  loud  and  furious.  The  patients 
in  the  beds  start  howling  for  them  to  settle  their 
dispute  outside  and  the  ward  is  in  an  uproar. 
The  head  sister  comes  along  and  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand  completely  routs  the  doughty  warriors  and 
again  silence  reigns  supreme. 

Wednesday  and  Sunday  of  each  week  were 
visiting  days  and  were  looked  forward  to  by  the 
men,  because  they  meant  parcels  containing  fruit, 
sweets,  or  fags.  When  a  patient  had  a  regular 
visitor,  he  was  generally  kept  well  supplied  with 
these  delicacies.  Great  jealousy  is  shown  among 
the  men  as  to  their  visitors  and  many  word  wars 
ensue  after  the  visitors  leave. 


Blighty  »7t 

When  a  man  is  sent  to  a  convalescent  home,  he 
generally  turns  over  his  steady  visitor  to  the  man 
in  the  next  bed. 

Most  visitors  have  autograph  albums  and  bore 
Tommy  to  death  by  asking  him  to  write  the  par- 
ticulars of  his  wounding  in  same.  Several  Tom- 
mies try  to  duck  this  unpleasant  job  by  telling  the 
visitor  that  he  cannot  write,  but  this  never  phases 
the  owner  of  the  album;  he  or  she,  generally  she, 
offers  to  write  it  for  him  and  Tommy  is  stung  into 
telling  his  experiences. 

The  questions  asked  Tommy  by  visitors  would 
make  a  clever  joke  book  to  a  military  man. 

Some  kindly  looking  old  lady  will  stop  at  your 
bed  and  in  a  sympathetic  voice  address  you:  "You 
poor  boy,  wounded  by  those  terrible  Germans. 
You  must  be  suffering  frightful  pain.  A  bullet 
did  you  say?  Well,  tell  me,  I  have  always  wanted 
to  know,  did  it  hurt  worse  going  in  or  coming  out?  " 

Tommy  generally  replies  that  he  did  not  stop 
to  figure  it  out  when  he  was  hit. 

One  very  nice-looking,  over  enthusiastic  young 
thing,  stopped  at  my  bed  and  asked,  "What 
wounded  you  in  the  face?" 

In  a  polite  but  bored  tone  I  answered,  "A  rifle 
bullet." 


272  Over  the  Top 

With  a  look  of  disdain  she  passed  to  the  next 
bed,  first  ejaculating,  "Oh!  only  a  bullet?  I 
thought  it  was  a  shell. "  Why  she  should  think  a 
shell  wound  was  more  of  a  distinction  beats  me. 
I  don't  see  a  whole  lot  of  difference  myself. 

The  American  Women's  War  Hospital  was  a 
heaven  for  wounded  men.  They  were  allowed 
every  privilege  possible  conducive  with  the  rules 
and  military  discipline.  The  only  fault  was  that 
the  men's  passes  were  restricted.  To  get  a  pass 
required  an  act  of  Parliament.  Tommy  tried 
many  tricks  to  get  out,  but  the  Commandant, 
an  old  Boer  War  officer,  was  wise  to  them  all,  and 
it  took  a  new  and  clever  ruse  to  make  him  affix 
his  signature  to  the  coveted  slip  of  paper. 

As  soon  as  it  would  get  dark  many  a  patient 
climbed  over  the  wall  and  went  "on  his  own," 
regardless  of  many  signs  staring  him  in  the  face, 
"Out  of  bounds  for  patients."  Generally  the 
nurses  were  looking  the  other  way  when  one  of 
these  night  raids  started.  I  hope  this  information 
will  get  none  of  them  into  trouble,  but  I  cannot 
resist  the  temptation  to  let  the  Commandant 
know  that  occasionally  we  put  it  over  on  him. 

One  afternoon  I  received  a  note,  through  our 
underground  channel,  from  my  female  visitor, 


Blighty  373 

asking  me  to  attend  a  party  at  her  house  that 
night.  I  answered  that  she  could  expect  me  and 
to  meet  me  at  a  certain  place  on  the  road  well  known 
by  all  patients,  and  some  visitors,  as  "Over  the 
wall."  I  told  her  I  would  be  on  hand  at  seven- 
thirty. 

About  seven-fifteen  I  sneaked  my  overcoat  and 
cap  out  of  the  ward  and  hid  it  in  the  bushes. 
Then  I  told  the  nurse,  a  particular  friend  of  mine, 
that  I  was  going  for  a  walk  in  the  rose  garden. 
She  winked  and  I  knew  that  everything  was  all 
right  on  her  end. 

Going  out  of  the  ward,  I  slipped  into  the  bushes 
and  made  for  the  wall.  It  was  dark  as  pitch  and 
I  was  groping  through  the  underbrush,  when  sud- 
denly I  stepped  into  space  and  felt  myself  rush- 
ing downward,  a  horrible  bump,  and  blackness. 
When  I  came  to,  my  wounded  shoulder  was  hurting 
horribly.  I  was  lying  against  a  circular  wall  of 
bricks,  dripping  with  moisture,  and  far  away  I 
could  hear  the  trickling  of  water.  I  had  in  the 
darkness  fallen  into  an  old  disused  well.  But 
why  wasn't  I  wet?  According  to  all  rules  I  should 
have  been  drowned.  Perhaps  I  was  and  didn't 
know  it. 

As  the  shock  of  my  sudden  stop  gradually  wore 

z8 


£74  Over  the  Top 

off,  it  came  to  me  that  I  was  lying  on  a  ledge  and 
that  the  least  movement  on  my  part  would  pre- 
cipitate me  to  the  bottom  of  the  well. 

I  struck  a  match.  In  its  faint  glare  I  saw  that 
I  was  lying  in  a  circular  hole  about  twelve  feet 
deep, — the  well  had  been  filled  in!  The  dripping 
I  had  heard  came  from  a  water  pipe  over  on  my 
right. 

With  my  wounded  shoulder  it  was  impossible 
to  shinny  up  the  pipe.  I  could  not  yell  for  help, 
because  the  rescuer  would  want  to  know  how  the 
accident  happened,  and  I  would  be  haled  before  the 
Commandant  on  charges.  I  just  had  to  grin  and 
bear  it  with  the  forlorn  hope  that  one  of  the  re- 
turning night  raiders  would  pass  and  I  could  give 
him  our  usual  signal  of  "siss-s-s-s"  which  would 
bring  him  to  the  rescue. 

Every  half-hour  I  could  hear  the  clock  in  the 
village  strike,  each  stroke  bringing  forth  a  muffled 
volley  of  curses  on  the  man  who  had  dug  the 
well. 

After  two  hours,  I  heard  two  men  talking  in 
low  voices.  I  recognized  Corporal  Cook,  an  ardent 
"night  raider."  He  heard  my  "siss-s-s-s"  and 
came  to  the  edge  of  the  hole.  I  explained  my 
predicament  and  amid  a  lot  of  impertinent  re- 


Blighty  275 

marks,  which  at  the  time  I  did  not  resent,  I  was 
soon  fished  out. 

Taking  off  our  boots  we  sneaked  into  the  ward. 
I  was  sitting  on  my  bed  in  the  dark,  just  starting 
to  undress,  when  the  man  next  to  me,  "Ginger" 
Phillips,  whispered,  '"Op  it,  Yank,  'ere  comes  the 
matron." 

I  immediately  got  under  the  covers  and  feigned 
sleep.  The  matron  stood  talking  in  low  tones  to 
the  night  nurse  and  I  fell  asleep. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning  the  night  sister, 
an  American,  was  bending  over  me.  An  awful 
sight  met  my  eyes.  The  coverlet  on  the  bed  and 
the  sheets  were  a  mass  of  mud  and  green  slime. 
She  was  a  good  sport  all  right  and  hustled  to  get 
clean  clothes  and  sheets  so  that  no  one  would  get 
wise,  but  "on  her  own"  she  gave  me  a  good 
tongue  lashing  but  did  not  report  me.  One  of 
the  Canadians  in  the  ward  described  her  as  being 
"A  Jake  of  a  good  fellow. " 

Next  visiting  day  I  had  an  awful  time  explain- 
ing to  my  visitor  why  I  had  not  met  her  at  the 
appointed  time  and  place. 

And  for  a  week  every  time  I  passed  a  patient  he 
would  call,  "V/ell,  well,  here's  the  Yank.  Hope 
you  are  feeling  well,  old  top. " 


276  Over  the  Top 

The  surgeon  in  our  ward  was  an  American,  a 
Harvard  Unit  man,  named  Frost.  We  nicknamed 
him  "Jack  Frost."  He  was  loved  by  all.  If  a 
Tommy  was  to  be  cut  up  he  had  no  objection  to 
undergoing  the  operation  if  "Jack  Frost"  was  to 
wield  the  knife.  Their  confidence  in  him  was 
pathetic.  He  was  the  best  sport  I  have  ever  met. 

One  Saturday  morning  the  Commandant  and 
some  "high  up"  officers  were  inspecting  the  ward, 
when  one  of  the  patients  who  had  been  wounded 
in  the  head  by  a  bit  of  shrapnel,  fell  on  the  floor 
in  a  fit.  They  brought  him  round,  and  then  looked 
for  the  ward  orderly  to  carry  the  patient  back  to 
his  bed  at  the  other  end  of  the  ward.  The  orderly 
was  nowhere  to  be  found — like  our  policemen,  they 
never  are  when  needed.  The  officers  were  at  a 
loss  how  to  get  Palmer  into  his  bed.  Dr.  Frost 
was  fidgeting  around  in  a  nervous  manner,  when 
suddenly  with  a  muffled  "damn"  and  a  few  other 
qualifying  adjectives,  he  stooped  down  and  took 
the  man  in  his  arms  like  a  baby, — he  was  no  feather 
either, — and  staggered  down  the  ward  with  him, 
put  him  in  bed,  and  undressed  him.  A  low  murmur 
of  approval  came  from  the  patients.  Dr.  Frost 
got  very  red  and  as  soon  as  he  had  finished 
undressing  Palmer,  hurriedly  left  the  ward. 


Blighty  277 

The  wound  in  my  face  had  almost  healed  and  I 
was  a  horrible-looking  sight — the  left  cheek  twisted 
into  a  knot,  the  eye  pulled  down,  and  my  mouth 
pointing  in  a  north  by  northwest  direction.  I 
was  very  down-hearted  and  could  imagine  myself 
during  the  rest  of  my  life  being  shunned  by  all  on 
account  of  the  repulsive  scar. 

Dr.  Frost  arranged  for  me  to  go  to  the  Cam- 
bridge Military  Hospital  at  Aldershot  for  a  special 
operation  to  try  and  make  the  scar  presentable. 

I  arrived  at  the  hospital  and  got  an  awful  shock. 
The  food  was  poor  and  the  discipline  abnormally 
strict.  No  patient  was  allowed  to  sit  on  his  bed, 
and  smoking  was  permitted  only  at  certain  desig- 
nated hours.  ,The  face  specialist  did  nothing  for 
me  except  to  look  at  the  wound.  I  made  applica- 
tion for  a  transfer  back  to  Paignton,  offering  to 
pay  my  transportation.  This  offer  was  accepted, 
and  after  two  weeks'  absence,  once  again  I  arrived 
in  Munsey  Ward,  all  hope  gone. 

The  next  day  after  my  return,  Dr.  Frost  stopped 
at  my  bed  and  said :  "Well,  Empey,  if  you  want  me 
to  try  and  see  what  I  can  do  with  that  scar,  111  do 
it,  but  you  are  taking  an  awful  chance." 

I  answered:  "Well,  Doctor,  Steve  Brodietooka 
chance;  he  hails  from  New  York  and  so  do  I. " 


278  Over  the  Top 

Two  days  after  the  undertaker  squad  carried  me 
to  the  operating  room  or  "pictures,"  as  we  called 
them  because  of  the  funny  films  we  see  under 
ether,  and  the  operation  was  performed.  It  was 
a  wonderul  piece  of  surgery  and  a  marvelous  suc- 
cess. From  now  on  that  doctor  can  have  my  shirt. 

More  than  once  some  poor  soldier  has  been 
brought  into  the  ward  in  a  dying  condition,  result- 
ing from  loss  of  blood  and  exhaustion  caused  by  his 
long  journey  from  the  trenches.  After  an  examina- 
tion the  doctor  announces  that  the  only  thing  that 
will  save  him  is  a  transfusion  of  blood.  Where  is 
the  blood  to  come  from  ?  He  does  not  have  to  wait 
long  for  an  answer, — several  Tommies  immediately 
volunteer  their  blood  for  their  mate.  Three  or 
four  are  accepted;  a  blood  test  is  made,  and 
next  day  the  transfusion  takes  place  and  there  is 
another  pale  face  in  the  ward. 

Whenever  bone  is  needed  for  S9me  special  opera- 
tic n,  there  are  always  men  willing  to  give  some, — a 
leg  if  necessary  to  save  some  mangled  mate  from 
being  crippled  for  life.  More  than  one  man  will  go 
through  life  with  another  man's  blood  running 
through  his  veins,  or  a  piece  of  his  rib  or  his  shin- 
bone  in  his  own  anatomy.  Sometimes  he  never 
even  knows  the  name  of  his  benefactor. 


Blighty  279 

The  spirit  of  sacrifice  is  wonderful. 

For  all  the  suffering  caused  this  war  is  a  blessing 
to  England — it  has  made  new  men  of  her  sons;  has     /x 
welded  all  classes  into  one  glorious  whole. 

And  I  can't  help  saying  that  the  doctors,  sisters, 
and  nurses  in  the  English  hospitals,  are  angels  on 
earth.  I  love  them  all  and  can  never  repay  the 
care  and  kindness  shown  to  me.  For  the  rest  of 
my  life  the  Red  Cross  will  be  to  me  the  symbol  of  . 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity. 

After  four  months  in  the  hospital,  I  went  before 
an  examining  board  and  was  discharged  from  the 
service  of  his  Britannic  Majesty  as  "  physically 
unfit  for  further  war  service." 

After  my  discharge  I  engaged  passage  on  the 
American  liner,  New  York,  and  after  a  stormy 
trip  across  the  Atlantic,  one  momentous  day, 
in  the  haze  of  early  dawn  I  saw  the  Statue  of 
Liberty  looming  over  the  port  rail,  and  I  wondered 
if  ever  again  I  would  go  ' '  over  the  top  with  the  best 
of  luck  and  give  them  hell. " 

And  even  then,  though  it  may  seem  strange,  I 
was  really  sorry  not  to  be  back  in  the  trenches  with  y 
my  mates.     War  is  not  a  pink  tea  but  in  a  worth- 
while cause  like  ours,  mud,  rats,  cooties,  shells, 
wounds,  or  death  itself,  are  far  outweighed  by  the 


280  Over  the  Top 

deep  sense  of  satisfaction  felt  by  the  man  who 
does  his  bit. 

There  is  one  thing  which  my  experience  taught 
me  that  might  help  the  boy  who  may  have  to  go. 
It  is  this — anticipation  is  far  worse  than  realiza- 
tion. In  civil  life  a  man  stands  in  awe  of  the  man 
above  him,  wonders  how  he  could  ever  fill  his  job. 
When  the  time  comes  he  rises  to  the  occasion,  is 
up  and  at  it,  and  is  surprised  to  find  how  much 
more  easily  than  he  anticipated  he  fills  his  re- 
sponsibilities. It  is  really  so  "  out  there." 

He  has  nerve  for  the  hardships;  the  interest  of 
the  work  grips  him ;  he  finds  relief  in  the  fun  and 
comradeship  of  the  trenches  and  wins  that  best 
sort  of  happiness  that  comes  with  duty  done. 


"TOMMY'S  DICTIONARY  OF  THE 
TRENCHES" 

IN  this  so-called  dictionary  I  have  tried  to  list 
most  of  the  pet  terms  and  slangy  definitions,  which 
Tommy  Atkins  uses  a  thousand  times  a  day  as 
he  is  serving  in  France.  I  have  gathered  them  as 
I  lived  with  him  in  the  trenches  and  rest  billets, 
and  later  in  the  hospitals  in  England  where  I  met 
men  from  all  parts  of  the  line. 

The  definitions  are  not  official,  of  course.  Tommy 
is  not  a  sentimental  sort  of  animal  so  some  of  his 
definitions  are  not  exactly  complimentary,  but  he 
is  not  cynical  and  does  not  mean  to  offend  any- 
one higher  up.  It  is  just  a  sort  of  "ragging"  or 
"kidding,"  as  the  American  would  say,  that  helps 
him  pass  the  time  away. 

SLANG  TERMS,  SAYINGS,  PHRASES,  ETC. 

A 

"About  turn."  A  military  command  similar  to  "About  face" 
or  "To  the  rear,  march."  Tommy's  nickname  for  Hebu- 
terne,  a  point  on  the  British  line. 

Adjutant.  The  name  given  to  an  officer  who  helps  the  Colonel 
do  nothing.  He  rides  a  horse  and  you  see  him  at  guard 
mounting  and  battalion  parade. 

A.  D.  M.  S.    Assistant  Director  of  Medical  Service.     Have  never 
seen  him  but  he  is  supposed  to  help  the  D.  M.  S.  and  pass  on 
cases  where  Tommy  is  posted  as  "unfit  for  trench  service. " 
281 


282  Over  the  Top 

Ae'rial  Torpedo.  A  kind  of  trench  mortar  shell,  guaranteed  by 
the  makers  to  break  up  Fritz's  supper  of  sausages  and  beer, 
even  though  said  supper  is  in  a  dugout  thirty  feet  down. 
Sometimes  it  lives  up  to  its  reputation. 

Alarm.  A  signal  given  in  the  trenches  that  the  enemy  is  about 
to  attack,  frequently  false.  It  is  mainly  used  to  break  up 
Tommy's  dreams  of  home. 

"All  around  traverse."  A  machine  gun  so  placed  that  its  fire 
can  be  turned  in  any  direction. 

Allemand.  A  French  term  meaning  "  German."  Tommy  uses 
it  because  he  thinks  it  is  a  swear  word. 

Allotment.     A  certain  sum  Tommy  allows  to  his  family. 

Allumettes.  French  term  for  what  they  sell  to  Tommy  as 
matches,  the  sulphurous  fumes  from  which  have  been  known 
to  "gas"  a  whole  platoon. 

"Ammo."  Rifle  ammunition.  Used  to  add  weight  to  Tommy's 
belt.  He  carries  120  rounds,  at  all  times,  except  when  he 
buries  it  under  the  straw  in  his  billet  before  going  on  a  route 
march.  In  the  trenches  he  expends  it  in  the  direction  of 
Berlin. 

Ammo  Depot.  A  place  where  ammunition  is  stored.  It  is 
especially  useful  in  making  enemy  airmen  waste  bombs 
trying  to  hit  it. 

Ammonal.  A  high  explosive  used  in  the  Mills  bomb.  The  Ger- 
mans are  more  able  than  Tommy  to  discourse  on  its  effects. 

"Any  complaints."  A  useless  question  asked  by  an  inspecting 
officer  when  he  makes  the  rounds  of  billets  or  Tommy's 
meals.  A  complaining  Tommy  generally  lands  on  the  crime 
sheet.  It  is  only  recruits  who  complain;  the  old  men  just 
sigh  with  disgust. 

A.  O.  C.  Army  Ordnance  Corps.  A  department  which  deals 
out  supplies  to  the  troops.  Its  chief  asset  is  the  returning 
of  requisitions  because  a  comma  is  misplaced. 

A.  P.  M.  Assistant  Provost  Marshal.  An  officer  at  the  head  of 
the  Military  Police.  His  headquarters  are  generally  out  of 
reach  of  the  enemy's  guns.  His  chief  duties  are  to  rido 
around  in  a  motor  car  and  wear  a  red  band  around  his  cap. 

"Aprfcs  la  Guerre."  "After  the  war."  Tommy's  definition  of 
Heaven. 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches0  283 

A.  S.  C.  Army  Service  Corps,  or  Army  Safety  Corps  as  Tommy 
calls  it.  The  members  of  which  bring  up  supplies  to  the  rear 
of  the  line. 

B 

"  Back  o*  the  line."  Any  place  behind  the  firing  line  out  of 
range  of  enemy  guns. 

Baler.  A  scoop  affair  for  baling  out  water  from  the  trenches  and 
dugouts.  As  the  trenches  generally  drain  the  surrounding 
landscape,  the  sun  has  to  be  appealed  to  before  the  job  is 
completed. 

Bantams.  Men  under  the  standard  army  height  of  5  ft.  3  in. 
They  are  in  a  separate  organization  called  "The  Bantam 
Battalion,"  and  although  undersized  have  the  opinion  that 
they  can  lick  the  whole  German  Army. 

Barbed  Wire.  A  lot  of  prickly  wire  entwined  around  stakes 
driven  in  front  of  the  trenches.  This  obstruction  is  sup- 
posed to  prevent  the  Germans  from  taking  lodgings  in  your 
dugouts.  It  also  affords  the  enemy  artillery  rare  sport  try- 
ing to  blow  it  up. 

"  Barndook."  Tommy's  nickname  for  his  rifle.  He  uses  it  be- 
cause it  is  harder  to  say  and  spell  than  "rifle. " 

Barrage.  Concentrated  shell-fire  on  a  sector  of  the  German  line. 
In  the  early  days  of  the  war,  when  ammunition  was  defect- 
ive, it  often  landed  on  Tommy  himself. 

Barricade.  An  obstruction  of  sandbags  to  impede  the  enemy's 
traffic  into  your  trench.  You  build  it  up  and  he  promptly 
knocks  it  down,  so  what's  the  use. 

"  Bashed  in."  Smashed  by  a  shell.  Generally  applied  to  a 
trench  or  dugout. 

Batman.  A  man  who  volunteers  to  clean  a  non-commissioned 
officer's  buttons  but  who  never  volunteers  for  a  trench  raid. 
He  ranks  next  to  a  worm. 

Bayonet.  A  sort  of  knife-like  contrivance  which  fits  on  the  end 
of  your  rifle.  The  Government  issues  it  to  stab  Germans 
with.  Tommy  uses  it  to  toast  bread. 

"  Big  Boys."    Large  guns,  generally  eight  inch  or  above. 

"Big  Push."  "The  Battle  of  the  Somme."  He  often  calls  it 
"The  First  of  July, "  the  date  on  which  it  started. 


284  Over  the  Top 

"  Big  Stuff."     Large  shells,  eight  inch  or  over. 

"  Big  Willie."     Tommy's  term  for  his  personal  friend,  the  Kaiser. 

Billet.  Sometimes  a  regular  house  but  generally  a  stable  where 
Tommy  sleeps  while  behind  the  lines.  It  is  generally  lo- 
cated near  a  large  manure  pile.  Most  billets  have  numerous 
entrances — one  for  Tommy  and  the  rest  for  rain,  rats,  wind, 
and  shells. 

Billet  Guard.  Three  men  and  a  corporal  who  are  posted  to  guard 
the  billets  of  soldiers.  They  do  this  until  the  orderly  officer 
has  made  his  rounds  at  night,  then  they  go  to  sleep. 

Biscuit.  A  concoction  of  flour  and  water,  baked  until  very  hard. 
Its  original  use  was  for  building  purposes,  but  Tommy  is 
supposed  to  eat  it.  Tommy  is  no  coward  but  he  balks  at  this. 
Biscuits  make  excellent  fuel,  and  give  no  smoke. 

Bivouac.  A  term  given  by  Tommy  to  a  sort  of  tent  made  out  of 
waterproof  sheets. 

Blastine.  A  high  explosive  which  promotes  Kultur  in  the  Ger- 
man lines. 

Blighty.  An  East  Indian  term  meaning  "over  the  seas." 
Tommy  has  adopted  it  as  a  synonym  for  home.  He  tries 
numerous  ways  of  reaching  Blighty,  but  the  "powers  that 
be"  are  wise  to  all  of  his  dttempts,  so  he  generally  fails. 

"  Blighty  One."  A  wound  serious  enough  to  send  Tommy  to 
England. 

B.  M.  G.  C.  Brigade  Machine  Gun  Company,  composed  of 
Vickers  machine  gunners.  They  always  put  their  packs  on 
a  limber  or  small  wagon  while  route  marching,  which  fact 
greatly  arouses  the  jealousy  of  Tommy. 

"  Body  Snatcher."     Tommy's  term  for  a  sniper. 

Bomb.  An  infernal  device  filled  with  high  explosive  which  you 
throw  at  the  Germans.  Its  chief  delight  is  to  explode  before 
it  leaves  your  hand. 

Bomb  Store.  A  place  where  bombs  are  kept,  built  so  the  enemy 
cannot  locate  them  with  his  fire.  For  that  matter,  Tommy 
can't  either  when  he  needs  them. 

Bombing  Post.  A  sort  of  trench  or  sap  running  from  your  front 
line  to  within  a  few  yards  of  the  enemy's  trench.  It  is 
occupied  by  bomb  throwers  who  would  like  to  sign  an  agree- 
ment with  the  Germans  for  neither  side  to  throw  bombs. 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches*'  285 

Brag.  A  card  game  similar  to  poker  at  which  every  player  quits 
a  loser  and  no  one  wins,  that  is,  according  to  the  statements 
of  the  several  players. 

Brazier.  A  sheet  iron  pot  punched  full  of  holes  in  which  a  fire 
is  built.  It  is  used  to  keep  Tommy  warm  in  his  dugout, 
until  he  becomes  unconscious  from  its  smoke  and  fumes.  He 
calls  it  a  "fire  bucket." 

Brigade  Guard.  Several  men  who  are  detailed  to  guard  Brigade 
Headquarters.  They  don't  go  to  sleep. 

B.  S.  M.  Battalion  Sergeant-Major.  The  highest  ranking  non- 
commissioned officer  in  the  battalion.  A  constant  dread  to 
Tommy  when  he  has  forgotten  to  polish  his  buttons  or  dub- 
bin his  boots. 

Bully  Beef.  A  kind  of  corned  beef  with  tin  round  it.  The  un- 
opened cans  make  excellent  walls  for  dugouts. 

Burm.  A  narrow  ledge  cut  along  the  walls  of  a  trench  to  prevent 
earth  from  caving  in.  "Burm"  to  Tommy  is  a  cuss  word, 
because  he  has  to  "go  over  the  top"  at  night  to  construct  it. 

"Busted."  Term  applied  when  a  non-commissioned  officer  is 
reduced  by  court-martial. 

Button  Stick.  A  contrivance  made  of  brass  ten  inches  long  which 
slides  over  the  buttons  and  protects  the  tunic  in  cleaning. 

- 
C 

"  Called  to  the  colors."    A  man  on  reserve  who  has  been  ordered 

to  report  for  service. 
"  Camel  Corps."    Tommy's  nickname  for  the  Infantry  because 

they  look  like  overloaded  camels,  and  probably  because  they 

also  go  eight  days,  and  longer,  without  a  drink,  that  is,  of 

the  real  stuff. 
Candle.    A  piece  of  wick  surrounded  by  wax  or  tallow  used  for 

lighting  purposes.     One  candle  among  six  men  is  the  general 

issue. 
Canister.    A  German  trench  mortar  shell  filled  with  scraps  of  iron 

and  nails.     Tommy  really  has  a  great  contempt  for  this  little 

token  of  German  affection  and  he  uses  the  nails  to  hang  his 

equipment  on  in  the  dugouts. 
Canteen.    A  mess  tin  issued  to  Tommy,  who,  after  dinner,  gen- 


286  Over  the  Top 

erally  forgets  to  wash  it,  and  pinches  his  mates  for  tea  in  tht 
evening. 

"  Carry  on."  Resume.  Keep  on  with  what  you  are  doing.  Go 
ahead. 

"  Carrying  in."  Machine  gunners'  term  for  taking  guns,  ammuni- 
tion, etc.,  into  front-line  trench. 

Caterpillar.  Is  not  a  bug,  but  the  name  given  to  a  powerful 
engine  used  to  haul  the  big  guns  over  rough  roads. 

C.  C.  S.  Casualty  Clearing  Station.  A  place  where  the  doctors 
draw  lots  to  see  if  Tommy  is  badly  wounded  enough  to  be 
sent  to  Blighty. 

Chalk  Pit.  A  white  spot  on  a  painted  landscape  used  at  the 
Machine  Gunners'  School  to  train  would-be  gunners  in  pick- 
ing cut  distinctive  objects  in  landscapes  and  guessing  ranges. 

Challenge.  A  question,  "Who  goes  there?"  thrown  at  an  un- 
known moving  object  by  a  sentry  in  the  darkness,  who  hopes 
that  said  moving  object  will  answer,  "Friend." 

Char.    A  black  poisonous  brew  which  Tommy  calls  tea. 

"  Che vaux-de-f rise."     Barbed-wire  defenses  against  cavalry." 

"  Chucking  his  weight  about."  Self-important.  Generally 
applied  to  a  newly  promoted  non-commissioned  officer  or  a 
recruit  airing  his  knowledge. 

Chum.  An  endearing  word  used  by  Tommy  to  his  mate  when  he 
wants  to  borrow  something  or  have  a  favor  done. 

"  Clicked  it."     Got  killed;  up  against  it;  wounded. 

"  Clock."     "  Trench  "  for  the  face. 

"  Coal  Box."  The  nickname  for  a  high  explosive  German  shell 
fired  from  a  5.9  howitzer  which  emits  a  heavy  black  smoke 
and  makes  Tommy's  hair  stand  on  end. 

Coal  Fatigue.  A  detail  on  which  Tommy  has  to  ride  in  a  limber 
and  fill  two  sacks  with  coal.  It  takes  him  exactly  four  hours 
to  do  this.  He  always  misses  morning  parade,  but  manages 
to  get  back  in  time  for  dinner. 

"  Cole."  Tommy's  nickname  for  a  penny.  It  buys  one  glass  of 
French  beer. 

"  Coming  it."    Trying  to  "put  something  over." 

"  Coming  the  acid."     Boasting;  lying  about  something. 

Communication  Trench.  A  zigzag  ditch  leading  from  the  rear 
to  the  front-line  trench,  through  which  reinforcements,  re- 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches'*  287 

liefs,  ammunition,  and  rations  are  brought  up.  Its  real  use 
is  to  teach  Tommy  how  to  swear  and  how  to  wade  through 
mud  up  to  his  knees. 

Communique.  An  official  report  which  is  published  daily  by  the 
different  warring  governments  for  the  purpose  of  kidding 
the  public.  They  don't  kid  Tommy. 

Company  Stores.    The  Quartermaster-Sergeant's  headquarters 
where  stores  are   kept.     A  general  hang-out  for  batmen, 
officers'  servants,  and  N.  C.  O.'s. 
"Compray."    Tommy's    French    for    "Do    you   understand?" 

Universally  used  in  the  trenches. 

Conscript.    A  man  who  tried  tc  wait  until  the  war  was  over  before 
volunteering  for  the  army,  but  was  balked  by  the  Govern- 
ment. 
"Consolidate  captured  line."     Digging  in  or  preparing  a  captured 

position  for  defence  against  a  counter-attack. 
Convalescence.     Six  weeks'  rest  allotted  to  a  wounded  Tommy. 
During  this  time  the  Government  is  planning  where  they 
will  send  Tommy  to  be  wounded  a  second  time. 
C.  of  E.     Church  of  England.     This  is  stamped  on  Tommy's 
identification  disk.     He  has  to  attend  church  parade  whether 
or  not  he  wants  to  go  to  Heaven. 

Cook.    A  soldier  detailed  to  spoil  Tommy's  rations.     He  is  gen- 
erally picked  because  he  was  a  blacksmith  in  civil  life. 
Cooties.     Unwelcome  inhabitants  of  Tommy's  shirt. 
Counter  Attack.    A  disagreeable  habit  of  the  enemy  which  makes 
Tommy  realize  that  after  capturing  a  position  the  hardest 
work  is  to  hold  it. 

Covering  Party.  A  number  of  men  detailed  to  lie  down  in  front 
of  a  working  party  while  "out  in  front"  to  prevent  surprise 
and  capture  by  German  patrols.  Tommy  loves  this  job,  I 
don't  think! 

Crater.  A  large  circular  hole  in  the  ground  made  by  the  explo- 
sion of  a  mine.  According  to  Official  Communiques,  Tommy 
always  occupies  a  crater  with  great  credit  to  himself.  But 
sometimes  the  Germans  get  there  first. 

"  Cricket  ball."  The  name  given  to  a  bomb  the  shape  and  size 
of  a  cricket  ball.  Tommy  does  not  use  it  to  play  cricket 
with. 


288  Over  the  Top 

Crime  Sheet.  A  useless  piece  of  paper  on  which  is  kept  a  record 
of  Tommy's  misdemeanors. 

11  Crump."  A  name  given  by  Tommy  to  a  high  explosive  Ger- 
man shell  which  when  it  bursts  makes  a  "Cru-mp"  sort  of 
noise. 

C.  S.  M.  Company  Sergeant-Major,  the  head  non-commissioned 
officer  of  a  company,  whose  chief  duty  is  to  wear  a  crown  on 
his  arm,  a  couple  of  Boer  War  ribbons  on  his  chest,  and  to 
put  Tommy's  name  and  number  on  the  crime  sheet. 

14  Curtain  fire."  A  ternTapplied  by  the  artillery  to  a  wall  of  shell 
fire  on  the  enemy  communication  trenches,  to  prevent  the 
bringing  up  of  men  and  supplies,  and  also  to  keep  our  own 
front  lines  from  wavering.  But  somehow  orjDther  men  and 
supplies  manage  to  leak  through  it. 

"  Cushy."     Easy;  comfortable;  "pretty  soft. " 


D.  A.  C.  Divisional  Ammunition  Column.  A  collection  of  men, 
horses,  and  limbers,  which  supplies  ammunition  for  the'line 
and  keeps  Tommy  awake,  while  in  billets,  with  their  infernal 
noise.  They  are  like  owls — always  working  at  night. 

D.  C.  M.  Distinguished  Conduct  Medal.  A  piece  of  bronze 
which  a  soldier  gets  for  being  foolish. 

D.  C.  P.  Divisional  Concert  Party.  An  aggregation  of  would-be 
actors  who  inflict  their  talents  on  Tommy  at  half  a  franc  per 
head. 

Defaulter.  Not  an  absconding  cashier,  but  a  Tommy  who  has 
been  sentenced  to  extra  pack  drill  for  breathing  while  on 
parade  or  doing  some  other  little  thing  like  that. 

"  Dekko."    To  look ;  a  look  at  something. 

Detonator.  A  contrivance  in  a  bomb  containing  fulminate  of 
mercury,  which,  ignited  by  a  fuse,  explodes  the  charge. 

"  Der  uffs."     "Deux  ceufs. "     Tommy's  French  for  " two  eggs." 

"  Dial."    Another  term  of  Tommy's  for  his  map,  or  face. 

"Digging  in."  Digging  trenches  and  dugouts  in  a  captured 
position. 

Digging  Party.  A  detail  of  men  told  off  to  dig  trenches,  graves,  or 
dugouts.  Tommy  is  not  particular  as  to  what  he  has  to  dig; 
it's  the  actual  digging  he  objects  to. 


•'Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches 


M 


11  Dinner  up."    Dinner  is  ready. 

Divisional  Band.  Another  devilish  aggregation  which  wastes 
most  of  its  time  in  practising  and  polishing  its  instruments. 

Dixie.  An  iron  pot  with  two  handles  on  it  in  which  Tommy's 
meals  are  cooked.  Its  real  efficiency  lies  in  the  fact  that 
when  carrying  it,  your  puttees  absorb  all  the  black  grease 
on  its  sides. 

"  Doing  them  in."  Killing  them.  Cutting  up  a  body  of  German 
troops. 

Donkey.  An  army  mule.  An  animal  for  which  Tommy  has  the 
greatest  respect.  He  never  pets  or  in  any  way  becomes 
familiar  with  said  mule. 

Draft.  A  contingent  of  new  men  sent  as  reinforcements  for  the 
trenches.  Tommy  takes  special  delight  in  scaring  these  men 
with  tales  of  his  own  experiences  which  he  never  had. 

Draftman.  A  member  of  a  draft  who  listens  to  and  believes 
Tommy 's  weird  tales  of  trench  warfare. 

Dressing  Station.  A  medical  post  where  Tommy  gets  his  wounds 
attended  to,  if  he  is  lucky  enough  to  get  wounded.  He  is 
"lucky,"  because  a  wound  means  Blighty. 

"  Drill  order."     Rifle,  belt,  bayonet,  and  respirator. 

Dry  Canteen.  An  army  store  where  Tommy  may  buy  cigarettes, 
chocolate,  and  tinned  fruit,  that  is,  if  he  has  any  money. 

D.  S.  O.  Distinguished  Service  Order.  Another  piece  of  metal 
issued  to  officers  for  being  brave.  Tommy  says  it  is  mostly 
won  in  dugouts  and  calls  it  a  "Dugout  Service  Order. " 

Dubbin.    A  grease  for  boots. 

Dud.  A  German  shell  or  bomb  which  has  not  exploded  on  ac- 
count of  a  defective  fuse.  Tommy  is  a  great  souvenir  col- 
lector so  he  gathers  these  "duds."  Sometimes  when  he 
tries  to  unscrew  the  nose-cap  it  sticks.  Then  in  his  hurry  to 
confiscate  it  before  an  officer  appears  he  doesn't  hammer  it 
just  right — and  the  printer  of  the  casualty  list  has  to  use  a 
little  more  type. 

Dugout.  A  deep  hole  in  the  trenches  dug  by  the  Royal  Engineer 
Corps;  supposed  to  be  shell  proof.  It  is,  until  a  shell  hits  it. 
Rat  and  Tommy  find  it  an  excellent  habitation  in  which  to 
contract  rheumatism. 

Dump.  An  uncovered  spot  where  trench  tools  and  supplies  are 
f 


Over  the  Top 


placed.    It  is  uncovered  so  that  these  will  become  rusty  and 
worthless  from  the  elements.     This  so  that  the  contractors 
at  home  won't  starve. 
"  Du  pan."     Tommy's  French  for  bread. 

£ 

Efficiency  Pay.    Extra  pay  allowed  by  the  Government  for  long 

service.     Tommy  is  very  efficient  if  he  manages  to  get  it 

from  the  Government. 
Eighteen-Pounder.    One  of  our  guns  which  fires  an  eighteen- 

pound   shell,    used   for   destroying    German   barbed   wire 

previous  to  an  attack.    If  it  does  its  duty  you  bet  Tommy  is 

grateful  to  the  eighteen-pounders. 
Elephant  Dugout.    A  large,  safe,  and  roomy  dugout,  braced  by 

heavy  steel  ribs  or  girders. 
Emplacement.    A  position  made  of  earth  or  sandbags  from  which 

a  machine  gun  is  fired.     It  is  supposed  to  be  invisible  to  the 

enemy.     They  generally  blow  it  up  in  the  course  of  a  couple 

of  days,  just  by  luck,  of  course. 
Entrenching  Tool.     A  spade-like  tool  for  digging  hasty  entrench- 

ments.    It  takes  about  a  week  to  dig  a  decent  hole  with  it, 

so  "  hasty  "  must  have  another  meaning. 
"  Equipment  on."     Put  on  equipment  for  drill  or  parade/ 
Escort.    A  guard  of  soldiers  who  conduct  prisoners  to  different 

points.     Tommy  is  just  as  liable  to  be  a  prisoner  as  an  escort. 
"  Estaminet."    A  French  public  house,  or  saloon,  where  muddy 

water  is  sold  for  beer. 


Fag.     Cigarette.     Something  Tommy  is  always  touching  you  for. 
"  Fag  issue."    Army  issue  of  cigarettes,  generally  on  Sunday. 
Fatigue.     Various  kinds  of  work  done  by  Tommy  while  he  is 

"resting." 
"  Fed  up."    Disgusted;  got   enough    of  it — as  the  rich  Mr. 

Hoggenheimer  used  to  say,  "Sufficiency." 
Field  Dressing.     Bandages  issued  to  soldiers  for  first  aid  when 

wounded.     They  use  them  for  handkerchiefs  and  to  clean 

their  rifles. 
Field  Post  Card.    A  card  on  which  Tommy  is  allowed  to  tell  his 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches"  291 

family  and  friends  that  h«  is  alive;  if  ho  is  dead  the  War 
Office  sends  a  card,  sometimes. 

Field  Punishment  No.  i.  Official  name  for  spread-oagling  a  man 
on  a  limber  wheel,  two  hours  a  day  for  twenty-one  days. 
His  rations  consist  of  bully  beef,  water,  and  biscuits. 
Tommy  calls  this  punishment  ".Crucifixion,"  especially  if 
he  has  undergone  it. 

"  Fifteen-pounder."  Still  another  of  ours;  shell  weighs  fifteen 
pounds.  Used  for  killing  rats  on  the  German  parapets. 

"  Finding  the  range."  Ascertaining  by  instrument  or  by  trial 
shots  the  distance  from  an  enemy  objective. 

"  Fireworks."    A  night  bombardment. 

Fire  Sector.  A  certain  space  of  ground  which  a  machine  gun  is 
supposed  to  sweep  with  its  fire.  If  the  gun  refuses  to  work, 
all  of  the  enemy  who  cross  this  space  are  technically  dead, 
according  to  the  General's  plans. 

Firing  Squad.  Twelve  men  picked  to  shoot  a  soldier  who  has 
been  sentenced  to  death  by  court-martial.  Tommy  has  no 
comment  to  make  on  this. 

Firing  Step.  A  ledge  in  the  front  trench  which  enables  Tommy 
to  fire  "over  the  top."  In  rainy  weather  you  have  to  be  an 
acrobat  to  even  stand  on  it  on  account  of  the  slippery  mud. 

Fire  Trench.     The  front-line  trench.     Another  name  for  Hell. 

11  Five  rounds  rapid."  Generally,  just  before  daylight  in  the 
trenches,  the  order  "Five  rounds  rapid"  is  given.  Each 
man  puts  his  rifie  and  head  over  the  parapet  and  fires  five 
shots  as  rapidly  as  possible  in  the  direction  of  the  German 
trenches  and  then  ducks.  A  sort  of  "Good  morning,  have 
you  used  Pears  Soap?" 

"  Five  nine."  A  German  shell  5.9  inches  in  diameter.  It  is 
their  'standard  shell.  Tommy  has  no  special  love  for  this 
brand,  but  they  are  like  olives,  all  right  when  you  get  used 
to  them. 

"  Flags."    Tommy's  nickname  for  a  Signaler. 

Flare.  A  rocket  fired  from  a  pistol  which,  at  night,  lights  up  the 
ground  in  front  of  your  trench. 

Flare  Pistol.  A  large  pistol,  which  looks  like  a  sawed-off  shot- 
gun, from  which  flares  are  fired.  When  you  need  this  pistol 
badly  it  has  generally  been  left  in  your  dugout. 


292  Over  the  Top 

Flying  Column.    A  flying  column  of  troops  that  walk  from  one 

point  of  the  line  to  another.     In  case  of  need  they  usually 

arrive  at  the  wrong  point. 
Fokker.    A  type  of  German  aeroplane  which  the  Boche  claims 

to  be  the  fastest  in  the  world.     Tommy  believes  this,  because 

our  airmen  seldom  catch  them. 
"For  it."     On  the  crime  sheet;   up  against  a  reprimand;  on 

trial,  in  trouble. 
11  Four  by  two."    A  piece  of  flannel  four  inches  by  two  issued  by 

the  Q.  M.  Sergeant  with  which  to  "pull  through." 
"Four  point   five."    Another   of  ours.    The   Germans  don't 

like  this*  one. 
"  Four  point  seven."    One  of  our  shells  4.7  inches  in  diameter. 

Tommy  likes  this  kind. 
"  Fritz."    Tommy's  name  for  a  German.     He  loves  a  German 

like  poison. 
Front  Line.    The  nearest  trench  to  the  enemy.    No  place  for  a 

conscientious  objector. 
Frostbite.    A  quick  road  to  Blighty,  which  Tommy  used  very 

often  until  frostbite  became  a  court-martial  offence.     Now 

he  keeps  his  feet  warm. 

"  Full  pack."    A  soldier  carrying  all  of  his  equipment. 
Full  Corporal.    A  N.  C.  O.  who  sports  two  stripes  on  his  arm 

and  has  more  to  say  than  the  Colonel. 
Fumigator.     An   infernal    device   at   a   hospital    which    cooks 

Tommy's  uniform  and  returns  it  to  him  two  sizes  too  small. 
41  Funk  Hole."     Tommy's  term  for  a  dugout.    A  favorite  spot 

for  those  of  a  nervous  disposition. 
Fuse.     A  part  of  shell  or  bomb  which  burns  in  a  set  time  and 

ignites  the  detonator. 


Gas.  Poisonous  fumes  which  the  Germans  send  over  to  our 
trenches.  When  the  wind  is  favorable  this  gas  is  discharged 
into  the  air  from  huge  cylinders.  The  wind  carries  it  over 
toward  our  lines.  It  appears  like  a  huge  yellowish-green 
cloud  rolling  along  the  ground.  The  alarm  is  sounded  and 
Tommy  promptly  puts  on  his  gas  helmet  and  laughs  at  tho 
Bodies. 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches"  293 

Gas  Gong.  An  empty  shell  case  hung  up  in  the  trenches  and  in 
billets.  A  sentry  is  posted  near  it,  so  that  in  case  German 
poison  gas  comes  over,  he  can  give  the  alarm  by  striking  this 
gong  with  an  iron  bar.  If  the  sentry  happens  to  be  asleep 
we  get  "gassed." 

"  Gassed."  A  soldier  who  has  been  overcome  from  the  fumes  of 
German  poison  gas,  or  the  hot  air  of  a  comrade. 

"  Gassing."    A  term  Tommy  applies  to  "shooting  the  bull." 

"  Getting  a  sub."  Touching  an  officer  for  money.  To  be  taken 
out  of  soldier's  pay  on  the  next  pay-day. 

"  Getting  the  sparks."  Bullets  from  a  machine  gun  cutting 
enemy  barbed  wire  at  night;  when  a  bullet  strikes  wire  it 
generally  throws  off  a  bluish  spark.  Machine  gunners  use 
this  method  at  night  to  "set"  their  gun  so  that  its  fire  will 
command  the  enemy's  trench. 

"  Ginger."     Nickname  of  a  red-headed  soldier;  courage;  pep. 

"  Gippo."     Bacon  grease;  soup. 

G.  M.  P.  Garrison  Military  Police.  Soldiers  detailed  to  patrol 
the  roads  and  regulate  traffic  behind  the  lines.  Tommy's 
pet  aversion. 

G.  O.  C.  General  Officer  Commanding.  Tommy  never  sees 
him  in  the  act  of  "commanding,"  but  has  the  opportunity 
of  reading  many  an  order  signed  "  G.  O.  C. " 

Goggles.  An  apparatus  made  of  canvas  and  mica  which  is  worn 
over  the  eyes  for  protection  from  the  gases  of  German 
"tear  shells."  The  only  time  Tommy  cries  is  when  he 
forgets  his  goggles  or  misses  the  rum  issue. 

"  Going  in."    Taking  over  trenches. 

"  Going  out."    Relieved  from  the  trenches. 

"  Gone  West."    Killed;  died. 

"  Gooseberries."  A  wooden  frame  in  the  shape  of  a  cask 
wrapped  round  with  barbed  wire.  These  gooseberries  are 
thrown  into  the  barbed-wire  entanglements  to  help  make 
them  impassable. 

"  Got  the  Crown."    Promoted  to  Sergeant-Major. 

Green  Envelope.  An  envelope  of  a  green  color  issued  to  Tommy 
once  a  week.  The  contents  will  not  be  censored  regiment- 
ally,  but  are  liable  to  censor  at  the  base.  On  the  outside  of 
envelope  appears  the  following  certificate,  which  Tommy 


294  Over  the  Top 

must  sign:  "I  certify  on  my  honor  that  the  contents  of  this 
envelope  refer  to  nothing  but  private  and  family  matters.1' 
After  signing  this  certificate  Tommy  immediately  writes 
about  everything  but  family  and  private  matters. 

Groom.  A  soldier  who  looks  after  an  officer's  horse  and  who 
robs  said  horse  of  its  hay.  He  makes  his  own  bed  comfort- 
able with  this  hay. 

Grousing.  A  scientific  grumbling  in  which  Tommy  cusses 
everything  in  general  and  offends  no  one. 

G.  S.  W.  Gunshot  wound.  When  Tommy  is  wounded  he  does 
not  care  whether  it  is  a  G.  S.  W.  or  a  kick  from  a  mule,  just 
so  he  gets  back  to  Blighty. 

G.  S.  Wagon.  A  four-wheeled  wagon  driven  by  an  A.  S.  C. 
driver.  It  carries  supplies,  such  as  food,  ammunition, 
trench  tools,  and  timber  for  dugouts.  When  Tommy  gets 
sore  feet  he  is  allowed  to  ride  on  this  wagon  and  fills  the  ears 
of  the  driver  with  tales  of  his  wonderful  exploits.  Occasion- 
ally one  of  these  drivers  believes  him. 

Gum  Boots.  Rubber  boots  issued  to  Tommy  for  wet  trenches. 
They  are  used  to  keep  his  feet  dry;  they  do,  when  he  is 
lucky  enough  to  get  a  pair. 

"  Gumming  the  game."     Spoiling  anything,  interfering. 


"  Hair  brush."  Name  of  a  bomb  used  in  the  earlier  stages  of  the 
war.  It  is  shaped  like  a  hair  brush  and  is  thrown  by  the 
handle.  Tommy  used  to  throw  them  over  to  the  Germans 
for  their  morning  toilette. 

"Hand  grenade."  A  general  term  for  a  bomb  which  is  thrown  by 
"hand.  Tommy  looks  upon  all  bombs  with  grave  suspicion; 
from  long  experience  he  has  learned  not  to  trust  them,  even 
if  the  detonator  has  been  removed. 

"  Hard  tails."     Mules. 

Haversack.  A  canvas  bag  forming  part  of  Tommy's  equipment, 
carried  on  the  left  side.  Its  original  use  was  intended  for  the 
carrying  of  emergency  rations  and  small  kit.  It  is  generally 
filled  with  a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  tobacco,  pipes, 
bread  crumbs,  letters,  and  a  lot  of  useless  souvenirs. 

"  Having  a  doss."    Having  a  sleep. 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches**  295 

"  Hold-all."  A  small  canvas  roll  in  which  you  are  supposed  to 
carry  your  razor,  comb,  knife,  fork,  spoon,  mirror,  soap, 
tooth  brush,  etc.  Tommy  takes  great  care  of  the  above, 
because  it  means  extra  pack  drill  to  come  on  parade  unshaven. 

*'  Holy  Joe."  Tommy's  familiar  but  not  necessarily  irreverent 
name  for  the  Chaplain.  He  really  has  a  great  admiration 
for  this  officer,  who  although  not  a  fighting  man,  so  often 
risks  his  life  to  save  a  wounded  Tommy. 

"  Housewife."  A  neat  little  package  of  needles,  thread,  extra 
shoelaces,  and  buttons.  When  a  button  comes  off  Tommy's 
trousers,  instead  of  going  to  his  housewife  he  looks  around 
for  a  nail. 

Hun.  Another  term  for  a  German,  mostly  used  by  war  corre- 
spondents. 

"  Hun  pinching."    Raiding  German  trenches  for  prisoners. 


Identification  Disk.  A  little  fiber  disk  which  is  worn  around 
the  neck  by  means  of  a  string.  On  one  side  is  stamped  your 
name,  rank,  regimental  number,  and  regiment,  while  on 
the  other  side  is  stamped  your  religion.  If  at  any  time 
Tommy  is  doubtful  of  his  identity  he  looks  at  his  disk  to 
reassure  himself. 

"  Pm  sorry."  Tommy's  apology.  If  he  pokes  your  eye  out 
with  his  bayonet  he  says,  "I'm  sorry,  "and  the  matter  is 
ended  so  far  as  he  is  concerned. 

"  In  front."  Over  the  top;  in  front  of  the  front-line  trench,  in 
No  Man's  Land. 

"  In  reserve."  Troops  occupying  positions,  billets,  or  dugouts, 
immediately  in  rear  of  the  front  line,  who  in  case  of  an  attack 
will  support  the  firing  line. 

Intelligence  Department.  Secret  service  men  who  are  supposed 
to  catch  spies  or  be  spies  as  the  occasion  demands. 

Interpreter.  A  fat  job  with  a  "return  ticket, "  held  by  a  soldier 
who  thinks  he  can  speak  a  couple  of  languages.  He  ques- 
tions prisoners  as  to  the  color  of  their  grandmothers'  eyes 
and  why  they  joined  the  army.  Just  imagine  asking  a 
German  "why"  he  joined  the  army. 

"  Invalided."     Sent  to  England  on  account  of  sickness. 


296  Over  the  Top 

Iron  Rations.  A  tin  of  bully  beef,  two  biscuits,  and  a  tin  con- 
taining tea,  sugar,  and  Oxo  cubes.  These  are  not  supposed 
to  be  eaten  until  you  die  of  starvation. 

Isolated  Post.  An  advanced  part  of  a  trench  or  position  where 
one  or  two  sentries  are  posted  to  guard  against  a  surprise 
attack.  While  in  this  post  Tommy  is  constantly  wondering 
what  the  Germans  will  do  with  his  body. 

"  It's  good  we  have  a  Navy."  One  of  Tommy's  expressions 
when  he  is  disgusted  with  the  army  and  its  work. 


"Jack  Johnson."    A  seventeen-inch  German  shell.     Probably 

called  "Jack  Johnson"  because  the  Germans  thought  that 

with  it  they  could  lick  the  world. 
Jackknife.    A  knife,  issued  to  Tommy,  which  weighs  a  stone  and 

won't  cut.    Its  only  virtue  is  the  fact  that  it  has  a  tin-opener 

attachment  which  won't  open  tins. 
Jam.    A  horrible  mess  of  fruit  and  sugar  which  Tommy  spreads 

on  his  bread.     It  all  tastes  the  same  no  matter  whether 

labelled  "  Strawberry  "  or  "  Green  Gage." 
"  Jam  Tin."    A  crude  sort  of  hand  grenade  which,  in  the  early 

stages  of  the  war,  Tommy  used  to  manufacture  out  of  jam 

tins,    ammonal,  and    mud.     The    manufacturer   generally 

would  receive  a  little  wooden  cross  in  recognition  of  the  fact 

that  he  died  for  King  and  Country. 
Jock.     Universal  name  for  a  Scotchman. 


"  Kicked  the  bucket."    Died. 

Kilo.    Five  eighths  of  a  mile.     Ten  "kilos"  generally  means  a 

trek  of  fifteen  miles. 
"King's   Shilling."     Tommy's  rate  of  pay  per  day,  perhaps. 

"Taking  the  King's  Shilling"  means  enlisting. 
"Kip."        Tommy's  term  for  "sleep."    He  also  calls  his  bed 

his  "  kip."     It  is  on  guard  that  Tommy  most  desires  to  kip. 

Kit  Bag.     A  part  of  Tommy's  equipment  in  which  he  is  supposed 

.  to  pack  up  his  troubles  and  smile,  according  to  the  words  of 

a  popular  song  (the  composer  was  never  in  a  trench). 
Kitchener's  Army.     The  volunteer  army  raised  by  Lord  Kitch- 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches"  297 

ener,  the  members  of  which  signed  for  duration  of  war. 
They  are  commonly  called  the  "New  Army"  or  "Kitch- 
ener's Mob."  At  first  the  Regulars  and  Territorials 
looked  down  on  them,  but  now  accept  them  as  welcome 
mates. 


Labor  Battalion.  An  organization  which  is  "too  proud  to  fight. " 
They  would  sooner  use  a  pick  and  shovel. 

Lance-Corporal.  A  N.  C.  O.  one  grade  above  a  private  who 
wears  a  shoestring  stripe  on  his  arm  and  thinks  the  war 
should  be  run  according  to  his  ideas. 

41  Lead.  "  The  leading  pair  of  horses  or  mules  on  a  limber. 
Their  only  fault  is  that  they  won't  lead  (if  they  happen  to 
be  mules). 

Leave  Train.  The  train  which  takes  Tommy  to  one  of  the  sea- 
ports on  the  Channel  en  route  to  Blighty  when  granted  leave. 
The  worst  part  of  going  on  leave  is  coming  back. 

Lee  Enfield.  Name  of  the  rifle  used  by  the  British  Army.  Its 
caliber  is  .303  and  the  magazine  holds  ten  rounds.  When 
dirty  it  has  a  nasty  habit  of  getting  Tommy's  name  on  the 
crime  sheet. 

44  Legging  it.  "    Running  away. 

Lewis  Gun.  A  rifle-like  machine  gun,  air  cooled,  which  only 
carries  47  rounds  in  its  "pie-plate"  magazine.  Under  fire 
when  this  magazine  is  emptied  you  shout  for  "ammo"  but 
perhaps  No.  2,  the  ammo  carrier,  is  lying  in  the  rear  with 
a  bullet  through  his  napper.  Then  it's  "napoo-fini" 
(Tommy's  French)  for  Mr.  Lewis. 

44  Light  Duty."  What  the  doctor  marks  on  the  sick  report 
opposite  a  Tommy's  name  when  he  has  doubts  as  to  whether 
said  Tommy  is  putting  one  over  on  him.  Usually  Tommy  is. 

Light  Railway.  Two  thin  iron  tracks  on  which  small  flat  cars 
full  of  ammunition  and  supplies  are  pushed.  These  rail- 
ways afford  Tommy  great  sport  in  the  loading,  pushing,  and 
unloading  of  cars. 

Limber.  A  match  box  on  two  wheels  which  gives  the  Army  mule 
a  job.  It  also  carries  officer's  packs. 

liquid  Fire.    Another  striking  example  of  German  "Kultur," 


298  Over  the  Top 

According  to  the  Germans  it  is  supposed  to  annihilate  whole 
brigades,  but  Tommy  refuses  to  be  annihilated. 

Listening  Post.  Two  or  three  men  detailed  to  go  out  "in  front" 
at  night,  to  lie  on  the  ground  and  listen  for  any  undue  activity 
in  the  German  lines".  They  also  listen  for  the  digging  of 
mines.  It  is  nervous  work  and  when  Tommy  returns  he 
generally  writes  for  a  box  of  "Phosperine  Tablets, "  a  widely 
advertised  nerve  tonic. 

"  Little  Willie. "  Tommy's  nickname  for  the  German  Crown 
Prince.  They  are  not  on  speaking  terms. 

"  Lloyd  George's  Pets.  "    Munition  workers  in  England. 

"  Lonely  Soldier.  "  A  soldier  who  advertises  himself  as  "lonely  " 
through  the  medium  of  some  English  newspaper.  If  he  is 
clever  and  diplomatic  by  this  method  he  generally  receives 
two  or  three  parcels  a  week,  but  he  must  be  careful  not  to 
write  to  two  girls  living  on  the  same  block  or  his  parcel  post 
mail  will  diminish. 

"  Lonely  Stab. "  A  girl  who  writes  and  sends  parcels  to  Tommy. 
She  got  his  name  from  the  "  Lonely  Soldier  Column  "  of  some 
newspaper. 

Loophole.  A  disguised  aperture  in  a  trench  through  which  to 
"snipe"  at  Germans. 

Lyddite.  A  high  explosive  used  in  shells.  Has  a  habit  of 
scattering  bits  of  anatomy  over  the  landscape. 


M.  G.  C.  Machine  Gun  Corps.  A  collection  of  machine  gun- 
ners who  think  they  are  the  deciding  factor  of  the  war,  and 
that  artillery  is  unnecessary. 

M.  G.  Machine  Gunner.  A  man  who,  like  an  American  police- 
man, is  never  there  when  he  is  badly  wanted. 

Maconochie.  A  ration  of  meat,  vegetables,  and  soapy  water, 
contained  in  a  tin.  Mr.  Maconochie,  the  chemist  who  com- 
pounded this  mess,  intends  to  commit  "hari  kari"  before 
the  boys  return  from  the  front.  He  is  wise. 

41  Mad  Minute."  Firing  fifteen  rounds  from  your  rifle  in  sixty  sec- 
onds. A  man  is  mad  to  attempt  it,  especially  with  a  stiff  bolt. 

Mail  Bag.  A  canvas  bag  which  is  used  to  bring  the  other  fellow's 
mail  around. 


••Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches'*  299 

Major.  An  officer  in  a  Battalion  who  wears  a  crown  on  his  uni- 
form, is  in  command  of  two  companies,  and  corrects  said 
companies  in  the  second  position  of  "present  arms."  He 
also  resides  in  a  dugout. 

Maneuvers.  Useless  evolutions  of  troops  conceived  by  some- 
one higher  up  to  show  Tommy  how  brave  his  officers  are  and 
how  battles  should  be  fought.  The  enemy  never  attend 
these  maneuvers  to  prove  they're  right. 

Mass  Formation.  A  close  order  formation  in  which  the  Germans 
attack.  It  gives  them  a  sort  of  "Come  on,  I'm  with  you" 
feeling.  They  would  "hold  hands"  only  for  the  fact  that 
they  have  to  carry  their  rifles.  Tommy  takes  great  delight 
in  "busting  up"  these  gatherings. 

Mate.  A  soldier  with  whom  Tommy  is  especially  "chummy." 
Generally  picked  because  this  soldier  receives  a  parcel  from 
home  every  week. 

Maxim.  Type  of  machine  gun  which  has  been  supplanted  by  the 
Vickers  in  order  to  make  Tommy  unlearn  what  he  has  been 
taught  about  the  Maxim. 

M.  T.  Mechanical  Transport.  The  members  of  which  are  ex- 
taxi  drivers.  No  wonder  Tommy's  rations  melt  away  when 
the  M.  T.  carries  them. 

M.  O.  Medical  Officer.  A  doctor  specially  detailed  to  tell 
Tommy  that  he  is  not  sick. 

"  M.  and  D."  What  the  doctor  marks  on  the  "  sicker  "  or  sick 
report  when  he  thinks  Tommy  is  faking  sickness.  It  means 
medicine  and  duty. 

Mentioned  in  Despatches.  Recommended  for  bravery.  Tommy 
would  sooner  be  recommended  for  leave. 

."  Mercy  Kamerad."  What  Fritz  says  when  he  has  had  a  bellyful 
of  fighting  and  wants  to  surrender.  Of  late  this  has  been 
quite  a  popular  phrase  with  him,  replacing  the  Hymn  of  Hate. 

Mess  Orderly.  A  soldier  detailed  daily  to  carry  Tommy's  meals 
to  and  from  the  cook-house. 

Mess  Tin.  An  article  of  equipment  used  as  a  tea-kettle  and 
dinner-set. 

"Mike  and  George."  K.C.M.  G.  (Knight  Commander  of  the 
Order  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  George).  An  award  for  bravery 
in  the  field. 


3oo  Over  the  Top 

Military  Cross.  A  badge  of  honor  dished  out  to  officers  for 
bravery.  Tommy  insists  they  throw  dice  to  see  which  is  the 
bravest.  The  winner  gets  the  medal. 

Military  Medal.  A  piece  of  junk  issued  to  Tommy  who  has  done 
something  that  is  not  exactly  brave  but  still  is  not  cowardly. 
When  it  is  presented  he  takes  it  and  goes  back  wondering 
why  the  Army  picks  on  him. 

M.  P.    Military  Police.    Soldiers  with  whom  it  is  unsafe  to  argue. 

"  Mills.  "  Name  of  a  bomb  invented  by  Milh.  The  only  bomb 
in  which  Tommy  has  full  confidence, — and  he  mistrusts  even 
that. 

Mine.  An  underground  tunnel  dug  by  sappers  of  the  Royal 
Engineer  Corps.  This  tunnel  leads  from  your  trench  to  that 
of  the  enemy's.  At  the  end  or  head  of  the  tunnel  a  great 
quantity  of  explosives  are  stored  which  at  a  given  time  are 
exploded.  It  is  Tommy's  job  to  then  go  "over  the  top "  and 
occupy  the  crater  caused  by  the  explosion. 

Mine  Shaft.  A  shaft  leading  down  to  the  "gallery"  or  tunnel  of 
a  mine.  Sometimes  Tommy,  as  a  reward,  is  given  the  job  of 
helping  the  R.  E.'s  dig  this  shaft. 

Minnenwerfer.  A  high-power  trench  mortar  shell  of  the  Ger- 
mans, which  makes  no  noise  coming  through  the  air.  It  was 
invented  by  Professor  Kultur.  Tommy  does  not  know  it  is 
near  until  it  bites  him;  after  that  nothing  worries  him. 
Tommy  nicknames  them  "Minnies." 

Mouth  Organ.  An  instrument  with  which  a  vindictive  Tommy 
causes  misery  to  the  rest  of  his  platoon.  Some  authorities 
define  it  as  a  "musical  instrument." 

Mud.  A  brownish,  sticky  substance  found  in  the  trenches  after 
the  frequent  rains.  A  true  friend  to  Tommy,  which  sticks 
to  him  like  glue,  even  though  at  times  Tommy  resents  this 
affection  and  roundly  curses  said  mud. 

Mufti.  The  term  Tommy  gives  to  civilian  clothes.  Mufti  looks 
good  to  him  now. 


Nap.  A  card  game  of  Tommy's  in  which  the  one  who  stays  awake 
the  longest  grabs  the  pot.  If  all  the  players  fall  asleep,  the 
pot  goes  to  the  "Wounded  Soldiers'  Fund." 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches"  301 

"Napoo-Fini."  Tommy's  French  for  gone,  through  with,  finished, 
disappeared. 

"  Napper."    Tommy's  term  for  head. 

Neutral.    Tommy  says  it  means  "afraid  to  fight." 

Next  of  Kin.  Nearest  relative.  A  young  and  ambitious  platoon 
officer  bothers  his  men  two  or  three  times  a  month  taking  a 
record  of  their  "next  of  kin,"  because  he  thinks  that  Tommy's 
grandmother  may  have  changed  to  his  uncle. 

44  Night  ops."     Slang  for  night  operations  or  maneuvers. 

Nine-point-two.  A  howitzer  which  fires  a  shell  9.2  inches  in 
diarneter,  and  knocks  the  tiles  off  the  roof  of  Tommy's  billet 
through  the  force  of  its  concussion. 

No  Man's  Land.  The  space  between  the  hostile  trenches 
called  "No  Man's  Land"  because  no  one  owns  it  and  no 
one  wants  to.  In  France  you  could  not  give  it  away. 

N.  C.  C.  Non-Combatant  Corps.  Men  who  joined  the  Army 
under  the  stipulation  that  the  only  thing  they  would  fight 
for  would  be  their  meals.  They  have  no  "King  and  Coun- 
try." 

N.  C.  O.  Non-commissioned  officer.  A  person  hated  more 
than  the  Germans.  Tommy  says  his  stripes  are  issued  out 
with  the  rations,  and  he  ought  to  know. 

44  No.  9.  "  A  pill  the  doctor  gives  you  if  you  are  suffering  with 
corns  or  barber's  itch  or  any  disease  at  all.  If  none  are  in 
stock,  he  gives  you  a  No.  6  and  No.  3,  or  a  No.  5  and  No.  4, 
anything  to  make  nine. 

Nosecap.  That  part  of  a  shell  which  unscrews  and  contains  the 
device  and  scale  for  setting  the  time  fuse.  Some  Tommies 
are  ardent  souvenir  hunters.  As  soon  as  a  shell  bursts  in  the 
ground  you  will  see  them  out  with  picks  and  shovels  digging 
in  the  shell  hole  for  the  nose  cap.  If  the  shell  bursts  too 
near  them  they  don't  dig. 


Observation  Balloon.  A  captive  balloon  behind  the  lines  which 
observes  the  enemy.  The  enemy  doesn't  mind  being 
observed,  so  takes  no  notice  of  it.  It  gives  someone  a  job 
hauling  it  down  at  night,  so  it  has  one  good  point. 

Observation  Post.    A  position  in  the  front  line  where  an  artillery 


302  Over  the  Top 

officer  observes  the  fire  of  our  guns.  He  keeps  on  observing 
until  a  German  shell  observes  him.  After  this  there  is 
generally  a  new  officer  and  a  new  observation  post. 

O.  C.     Officer  commanding. 

Officers'  Mess.  Where  the  officers  eat  the  mess  that  the  O.  S. 
have  cooked. 

0.  S.  Officers'  servants.  The  lowest  ranking  private  in  the 
Army,  who  feeds  better  than  the  officers  he  waits  on. 

"  Oil  Cans.  "  Tommy's  term  for  a  German  trench  mortar  shell, 
which  is  an  old  tin  filled  with  explosive  and  junk  that  the 
Bodies  have  no  further  use  for. 

"  One  up.  "  Tommy's  term  for  a  lance-corporal  who  wears  one 
stripe.  The  private  always  wonders  why  he  was  overlooked 
when  promotions  were  in  order. 

"  On  the  mat.  "  When  Tommy  is  haled  before  his  commanding 
officer  to  explain  wl:y  he  has  broken  one  of  the  seven  million 
King's  regulations  for  the  government  of  the  Army.  His 
"explanation"  never  gets  him  anywhere  unless  it  is  on  the 
wheel  of  a  limber. 

"  On  your  own."  Another  famous  or  infamous  phrase  which  means 
Tommy  is  allowed  to  do  as  he  pleases.  An  officer  generally 
puts  Tommy  "on  his  own"  when  he  gets  Tommy  into  a 
dangerous  position  and  sees  no  way  to  extricate  him. 

Orderly-Corporal.  A  non-commissioned  officer  who  takes  the 
names  of  the  sick  every  morning  and  who  keeps  his  own 
candle  burning  after  he  has  ordered  "Lights  out"  at  night. 

Orderly-Officer.  An  officer  who,  for  a  week,  goes  around  and 
asks  if  there  are  "any  complaints"  and  gives  the  name  of 
the  complaining  soldier  to  the  Orderly-Sergeant  for  extra 
pack  drill. 

Orderly  Room.  The  Captain's  office  where  everything  is  dis- 
orderly. 

Orderly-Sergeant.  A  sergeant  who,  for  a  week,  is  supposed  to  do 
the  work  of  the  Orderly-Officer. 

"Out  of  bounds."  The  official  Army  term  meaning  that  Tommy 
is  not  allowed  to  trespass  where  this  sign  is  displayed.  He 
never  wished  to  until  the  sign  made  its  appearance. 

11  Out  there."  A  term  used  in  Blighty  which  means  "in  France." 
Conscientious  objectors  object  to  going  "out  there." 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches"  303 

"  Over  the  Top. "    A  famous  phrase  of  the  trenches.    It  is 

generally  the  order  for  the  men  to  charge  the  German  lines. 

Nearly  always  it  is  accompanied  by  the  Jonah  wish,  "With 

the  best  o'  luck  and  give  them  hell. " 
Oxo.    Concentrated  beef  cubes  that  a  fond  mother  sends  out  to 

Tommy  because  they  are  advertised  as  "British  to  the 

Backbone. " 


Packing.  Asbestos  wrapping  around  the  barrel  of  a  machine 
gun  to  keep  the  water  from  leaking  out  of  the  barrel  casing. 
Also  slang  for  rations. 

Pack  Drill.  Punishment  for  a  misdemeanor.  Sometimes  Tommy 
gets  caught  when  he  fills  .his  pack  -with  straw  to  lighten  it 
for  this  drill. 

Parados.  The  rear  wall  of  a  trench  which  the  Germans  continu- 
ally fill  with  bits  of  shell  and  rifle  bullets.  Tommy  doesn't 
mind  how  many  they  put  in  the  parados. 

Parapet.  The  top  part  of  a  front  trench  which  Tommy  con- 
stantly builds  up  and  the  Germans  just  as  constantly  knock 
down. 

Patrol.  A  few  soldiers  detailed  to  go  out  in  "No  Man's  Land, " 
at  night  and  return  without  any  information.  Usually  these 
patrols  are  successful. 

Pay  Book.  A  little  book  in  which  is  entered  the  amount  of  pay 
Tommy  draws.  In  the  back  of  same  there  is  also  a  space  for 
his  "will  and  last  testament";  this  to  remind  Tommy  that 
he  is  liable  to  be  killed.  (As  if  he  needed  any  reminder.) 

Pay  Parade.  A  formation  at  which  Tommy  lines  up  for  pay. 
When  his  turn  comes  the  paying-officer  asks,  "How  much?" 
and  Tommy  answers,  "Fifteen  francs,  sir."  He  gets  five. 

Periscope.  A  thing  in  the  trenches  which  you  look  through. 
After  looking  through  it,  you  look  over  the  top  to  really  see 
something. 

"  Physical  torture."  The  nickname  for  physical  training.  It  is 
torture,  especially  to  a  recruit. 

Pick.  A  tool  shaped  like  an  anchor  which  is  being  constantly 
handed  to  Tommy  with  the  terse  command,  "get  busy. " 

Pioneer.    A  soldier  detailed  in  each  company  to  keep  the  space 


364  Over  the  Top 

around  the  billets  clean.  He  sleeps  all  day  and  only  gets  busy 
when  an  officer  comes  round.  He  also  sleeps  at  night. 

"  Pip  squeak.  "  Tommy's  term  for  a  small  German  shell  which 
makes  a  "pip"  and  then  a  "squeak,"  when  it  comes  over. 

Poilu.  French  term,  for  their  private  soldier.  Tommy  would  use 
it  and  sometimes  does,  but  each  time  he  pronounces  it  differ- 
ently, so  no  one  knows  what  he  is  talking  about. 

Pontoon.  A  card  game,  in  America  known  as  "Black  Jack"  or 
"Twenty  One. "  The  banker  is  the  only  winner. 

Provost-Sergeant.  A  sergeant  detailed  to  oversee  prisoners,  their 
work,  etc.  Each  prisoner  solemnly  swears  that  when  he  gets 
out  of  "clink"  he  is  going  to  shoot  this  sergeant  and  when 
he  does  get  out  he  buys  him  a  drink. 

Pull  Through.  A  stout  cord  with  a  weight  on  one  end,  and  a  loop 
on  the  other  for  an  oily  rag.  The  weighted  end  is  dropped 
through  the  bore  of  the  rifle  and  the  rag  on  the  other  end  is 
"pulled  through." 

Pump.  A  useless  contrivance  for  emptying  the  trenches  of 
water.  ' '  Useless ' '  because  the  trenches  refuse  to  be  emptied. 

"  Pushing  up  the  Daisies.  "  Tommy's  term  for  a  soldier  who  has 
been  killed  and  buried  in  France. 


"Queer."  Tommy's  term  for  being  sick.  The  doctor"  im- 
mediately informs  him  that  there  is  nothing  queer  about 
him,  and  Tommy  doesn't  know  whether  to  feel  insulted  or 
complimented. 

Quid.  Tommy's  term  for  a  pound  or  twenty  shillings  (about 
$4.80).  He  is  not  on  very  good  terms  with  this  amount  as 
you  never  see  the  two  together. 

Q.  M.-Sergeant.  Quartermaster-Sergeant,  or  "Quarter"  as  he  is 
called.  A  non-commissioned  officer  in  a  company  who  wears 
three  stripes  and  a  crown,  and  takes  charge  of  the  company 
stores,  with  the  emphasis  on  the  "takes."  In  civil  life  he 
was  a  politician  or  burglar. 


Range  Finder.     An  instrument   for  ascertaining   the  distance 
between  two  objects,  using  the  instrument  as  one  object 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches'*  305 

It  is  very  accurate  only  you  get  a  different  result  each  time 
you  use  it,  says  Tommy. 

Rapid  Fire.  Means  to  stick  ycur  head  "over  the  top"  at  night, 
aim  at  the  moon,  and  empty  your  magazine.  If  there  is  no 
moon,  aim  at  the  spot  where  it  should  be. 

Ration  Bag.  A  small,  very  small  bag  for  carrying  rations. 
Sometimes  it  is  really  useful  for  lugging  souvenirs. 

Rations.  Various  kinds  of  tasteless  food  issued  by  the  Govern- 
ment to  Tommy,  to  kid  him  into  thinking  that  he  is  living 
in  luxury,  while  the  Germans  are  starving. 

Ration  Party.  Men  detailed  to  carry  rations  to  the  front  line; 
pick  out  a  black,  cold,  and  rainy  night;  put  a  fifty-pound  box 
on  your  shoulder;  sling  your  rifle  and  carry  one  hundred 
twenty  rounds  of  ammunition.  Then  go  through  a  com- 
munication trench,  with  the  mud  up  to  your  knees,  down 
this  trench  fora  half-mile,  and  then  find  your  mates  swearing 
in  seven  different  languages;  duck  a  few  shells  and  bullets, 
and  then  ask  Tommy  for  his  definition  of  a  "ration  party." 
You  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  it  is  the  same  as  yours. 

Rats.  The  main  inhabitants  of  the  trenches  and  dugouts. 
Very  useful  for  chewing  up  leather  equipment  and  running 
over  your  face  when  asleep.  A  British  rat  resembles  a  bull- 
dog, while  a  German  one,  through  a  course  of  Kultur,  re- 
sembles a  dachshund. 

"  Red  Cap.  "  Tommy's  nickname  for  a  Staff  Officer  because 
he  wears  a  red  band  around  his  cap. 

Red  Tape.  A  useless  sort  of  procedure.  The  main  object  of 
this  is  to  prolong  the  war  and  give  a  lot  of  fat  jobs  to  Army 
politicians. 

Regimental  Number.  Each  soldier  has  a  number  whether  or  not 
he  was  a  convict  in  civil  life.  Tommy  never  forgets  his 
number  when  he  sees  it  on  "orders  for  leave. " 

R.  P.  Regimental  Police.  Men  detailed  in  a  Battalion  to  annoy 
Tommy  and  to  prevent  him  from  doing  what  he  most  desires. 

Reinforcements.  A  lot  of  new  men  sent  out  from  England  who 
think  that  the  war  will  be  over  a  week  after  they  enter  the 
trenches. 

Relaying.  A  term  used  by  the  artillery.  After  a  gun  is  fired  it  is 
"relayed"  or  aimed  at  something  out  of  sight. 

30 


306  Over  the  Top 

Respirator.  A  cloth  helmet,  chemically  treated,  with  glass  eye- 
holes, which  Tommy  puts  over  his  head  as  a  protection 
against  poison  gas.  This  helmet  never  leaves  Tommy's 
person,  he  even  sleeps  with  it. 

Rest.  A  period  of  time  for  rest  allotted  to  Tommy  upon  being 
relieved  from  the  trenches.  He  uses  this  "rest"  to  mend 
roads,  dig  trenches,  and  make  himself  generally  useful  while 
behind  the  lines. 

Rest  Billets.  Shell  shattered  houses,  generally  barns,  in  which 
Tommy  "rests, "  when  relieved  from  the  firing  line. 

"  Ricco.  "  Term  for  a  ricochet  bullet.  It  makes  a  whining 
noise  and  Tommy  always  ducks  when  a  "ricco"  passes  him. 

Rifle.  A  part  of  Tommy's  armament.  Its  main  use  is  to  be 
cleaned.  Sometimes  it  is  fired,  when  you  are  not  using  a 
pick  or  shovel.  You  also  "present  arms  by  numbers"  with 
it.  This  is  a  very  fascinating  exercise  to  Tommy.  Ask 
him. 

Rifle  Grenade.  A  bomb  on  the  end  of  a  rod.  This  rod  is  inserted 
into  the  barrel  of  a  specially  designed  rifle. 

"  R.  I.  P.  "  In  monk's  highbrow,  "Requiscat  in  pace,"  put  on 
little  wooden  crosses  over  soldier's  graves.  It  means  "Rest 
in  peace,"  but  Tommy  says  like  as  not  it  means  "Rest  in 
pieces,"  especially  if  the  man  under  the  cross  has  been  sent 
West  by  a  bomb  or  shell  explosion. 

"  Road  Dangerous,  Use  Trench.  "  A  familiar  sign  on  roads 
immediately  in  rear  of  the  firing  line.  It  is  to  warn  soldiers 
that  it  is  within  sight  of  Fritz.  Tommy  never  believes  these 
signs  and  swanks  up  the  road.  Later  on  he  tells  the  Red 
Cross  nurse  that  the  sign  told  the  truth. 

"  Roll  of  Honor.  "  The  name  given  to  the  published  casualty 
lists  of  the  war.  Tommy  has  no  ambition  for  his  name  to 
appear  on  the  "Roll  of  Honor"  unless  it  comes  under  the 
heading  "Slightly  Wounded." 

R.  C.  Roman  Catholic.  One  of  the  advantages  of  being  a  R. 
C.,  is  that  "Church  Parade"  is  not  compulsory. 

"  Rooty.  "     Tommy's  nickname  for  bread. 

Route  March.  A  useless  expenditure  of  leather  and  energy. 
These  marches  teach  Tommy  to  be  kind  to  overloaded  beasts 
of  burden. 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches**  307 

R.  A.  M.  C.  Royal  Army  Medical  Corps.  Tommy  says  it  means 
"Rob  All  My  Comrades." 

R.  E.'s.     Royal  Engineers. 

R.  F.  A.'s.     Royal  Field  Artillery  men. 

R.  F.  C.'s.     Royal  Flying  Corps. 

Rum.  A  nectar  of  the  gods  issued  in  the  early  morning  to 
Tommy. 

Rum  issue.  A  daily  formation  at  which  Tommy  receives  a 
spoonful  of  rum;_that  is  if  any  is  left  over  from  the  Sergeant's 
Mess. 

Runner.  A  soldier  who  is  detailed  or  picked  as  an  orderly  for  an 
officer  while  in  the  trenches.  His  real  job  is  to  take  mes- 
sages under  fire,  asking  how  many  tins  of  jam  are  required 
for  1917. 

S 

S.  A.  A.  Small  Arms  Ammunition.  Small  steel  pellets  which 
have  a  bad  habit  of  drilling  holes  in  the  anatomy  of  Tommy 
and  Fritz. 

Salvo.     Battery  firing  four  guns  simultaneously. 

Sandbag.  A  jute  bag  which  is  constantly  being  filled  with  earth. 
Its  main  uses  are  to  provide  Tommy  with  material  for  a 
comfortable  kip  and  to  strengthen  parapets. 

Sap.  A  small  ditch,  cr  trench,  dug  from  the  front  line  and  lead- 
ing out  into  "No  Man's  Land"  in  the  direction  of  the  Ger- 
man trenches. 

Sapper.  A  man  who  saps  or  digs  mines.  He  thinks  he  is  thirty- 
three  degrees  above  an  ordinary  soldier,  while  in  fact  he  is 
generally  beneath  him. 

Sausage  Balloon.     See  observation  balloon. 

S.  B.  Stretcher  Bearer.  The  motive  power  of  a  stretcher.  He 
is  generally  looking  the  other  way  when  a  fourteea-stone 
Tommy  gets  hit. 

Scaling  ladder.  Small  wooden  ladders  used  by  Tommy  for 
climbing  out  of  the  front  trench  when  he  goes  "over  the 
top."  When  Tommy  sees  these  ladders  being  brought  into 
the  trench,  he  sits  down  and  writes  his  will  in  his  little  pay- 
book. 

Sentry  Go.    Time  on  guard.     It  means  "sentry  come. " 


308  Over  the  Top 

Sergeant's  Mess.    Where  the  sergeants  eat.     Nearly  all  of  the 

rum  has  a  habit  of  disappearing  into  the  Sergeant's  Mess. 
Seventy-fives.    A  very  efficient  field-gun  of  the  French,  which 

can  nre~t,hirty  shells  per  minute.     The  gun  needs  no  relaying 

due  to  the  recoil  which  throws  the  gun  back  to  its  original 

position.     The   gun   that   knocked   out    "Jack   Johnson," 

therefore  called  "Jess  Willard." 
"  Sewed  in  a  blanket.  "     Term  for  a  soldier  who  has  been  buried. 

His  remains  are  generally  sewn  in  a  blanket  and  the  piece  of 

blanket  is  generally  deducted  from  his  pay  that  is  due. 
Shag.      Cigarette  tobacco  which  an  American  can  never  learn  to 

use.     Even  the  mules  object  to  the'  smell  of  it. 
Shell.     A  device  of  the  artillery  which  sometimes  makes  Tommy 

wish  he  had  been  born  in  a  neutral  country. 
Shell  Hole.    A  hole  in  the  ground  caused  by  the  explosion  of  a 

shell.     Tommy's  favorite  resting-place  while  under  fire. 
Shovel.     A  tool  closely  related  to  the  pick  family.     In  France  the 

"shovel"  is  mightier  than  the  sword. 
Shrapnel.    A  shell  which  bursts  in  the  air  and  scatters  small 

pieces  of  metal  over  a  large  area.     It  is  used  to  test  the 

resisting  power  of  steel  helmets. 
"  Sicker.  "    Nickname  for  the  sick  report  book.    It  is  Tommy's 

ambition  to  get  on  this  "sicker"  without  feeling  sick. 
Sick  Parade.    A  formation  at  which  the  doctor  informs  sick,  or 

would-be  sick  Tommies  that  they  are  not  sick. 
Sirty-pounder.     One  of  our  shells  which  weighs  sixty  pounds 

(officially).     When  Tommy  handles  them,  their   unofficial 

weight  is  three  hundred  weight. 
Skcker.    An  insect  in  England  who  is  afraid  to  join  the  Army. 

There  are  three  things  in  this  world  that  Tommy  hates:  a 

slacker,  a  German,  and  a  trench-rat;  it's  hard  to  tell  which  he 

hates  worst. 

"  Slag  Heap."    A  pile  of  rubbish,  tin  cans,  etc. 
Smoke  Bomb.    A  shell  which,  in  exploding,  emits  a  dense  white 

smoke,  hiding  the  operations  of  troops.     When  Tommy,  in 

attacking  a  trench,  gets  into  this  smoke,  he  imagines  himself 

a  magnet  and  thinks  all  the  machine  guns  and  rifles  are  firing 

at  him  alone. 
Smoke  Helmet.    See  respirator. 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches**  309 

Sniper.  A  good  shot  whose  main  occupation  is  picking  off  unwary 
individuals  of  the  enemy.  In  the  long  run  a  sniper  usually 
gets  "sniped." 

Snipe  Hole.  A  hole  in  a  steel  plate  through  which  snipers 
"snipe. "  It  is  not  fair  for  the  enemy  to  shoot  at  these  holes, 
but  they  do,  and  often  hit  them,  or  at  least  the  man  behind 
them. 

"  Soldiers'  Friend."  Metal  polish  costing  three  ha'  pence  which 
Tommy  uses  to  polish  his  buttons.  Tommy  wonders  why  it 
is  called  "Soldiers'  Friend." 

"  Somewhere  in  France. "  A  certain  spot  in  France  where 
Tommy  has  to  live  in  mud,  hunt  for  "cooties,"  and  duck 
shells  and  bullets.  Tommy's  official  address. 

Souvenir.  A  begging  word  used  by  the  French  kiddies.  When 
it  is  addressed  to  Tommy  it  generally  means,  a  penny,  bis- 
cuits, bully  beef,  or  a  tin  of  jam. 

Spy.  A  suspicious  person  whom  no  one  suspects  until  he  is 
caught.  Then  all  say  they  knew  he  was  a  spy  but  had  no 
chance  to  report  it  to  the  proper  authorities. 

"  Spud.  "  Tommy's  name  for  the  solitary  potato  which  gets 
into  the  stew.  It's  a  great  mystery  how  that  lonely  little 
spud  got  into  such  bad  company. 

Stand  To.  Order  to  mount  the  fire  step.  Given  just  as  it  begins 
to  grow  dark. 

Stand  Down.  Order  given  in  the  trenches  at  break  of  dawn  to  let 
the  men  know  their  night  watch  is  ended.  It  has  a  pleasant 
sound  in  Tommy's  ears. 

Star  Shell.     See  Flare. 

Steel  Helmet.  A  round  hat  made  out  of  steel  which  is  supposed 
to  be  shrapnel  proof.  It  is  until  a  piece  of  shell  goes  through 
it,  then  Tommy  loses  interest  as  to  whether  it  is  shrapnel 
proof  or  not.  He  calls  it  a  "  tin  hat. " 

Stew.  A  concoction  of  the  cook's  which  contains  bully  beef, 
Maconochie  rations,  water,  a  few  lumps  of  fresh  meat,  and  a 
potato.  Occasionally  a  little  salt  falls  into  it  by  mistake. 
Tommy  is  supposed  to  eat  this  mess — he  does — worse  luck! 

"  Strafeing. "  Tommy's  chief  sport — shelling  the  Germans. 
Taken  from  Fritz's  own  dictionary. 

Stretcher.    A  contrivance  on  which  dead  and  wounded  are  car- 


310  Over  the  Top 

ried.     The  only  time  Tommy  gets  a  free  ride  in  the  trenches 

is  while  on  a  stretcher.     As  a  rule  he  does  not  appreciate  tins 

means  of  transportation. 
"  Suicide  Club."     Nickname  for  bombers  and  machine  gunners. 

(No  misnomer.) 
Supper.     Tommy's   fourth    meal,    generally   eaten   just   before 

"lights  out. "     It  is  composed  of  the  remains  of  the  day's 

rations.     There  are  a  lot  of  Tommies  who  never  eat  supper. 

There  is  a  reason. 
S.  W.     Shell  wound.     What  the  doctor  marks  on  your  hospital 

chart  when  a  shell  has  removed  your  leg. 
Swamping.     Putting  on  airs;  showing  off.    Generally  accredited 

to  Yankees. 

"  Swinging  the  lead."     Throwing  the  bull. 
"  Sweating  on  leave."     Impatiently  waiting  for  your  name  to 

appear  in  orders  for  leave.     If  Tommy  sweats  very  long  he 

generally  catches  cold  and  when  leave  comes  he  is  too  sick 

to  go. 

T 

"  Taking  over."  Going  into  a  trench.  Tommy  "takes  over," 
is^"  taken  out,"  and  sometimes  is  "  put  under." 

Taube.  A  type  of  German  aeroplane  whose  special  ambition  is 
beating  the  altitude  record.  It  occasionally  loses  its  way 
and  flics  over  the  British  lines  and  then  stops  flying. 

Tea.  A  dark  brown  drug,  which  Tommy  has  to  have  at  certain 
periods  of  the  day.  Battles  have  been  known  to  have  been 
stopped  to  enable  Tommy  to  get  his  tea,  or  "char"  as  it  is 
commonly  called. 

"Tear  Shell.  "  Trench  name  for  the  German  lachrymose  chemi- 
cal shell  which  makes  the  eyes  smart.  The  only  time 
Tommy  is  outwardly  sentimental. 

Telephone.  A  little  instrument  with  a  wire  attached 
to  it.  An  artillery  observer  whispers  something  into  this 
instrument  and  immediately  one  of  your  batteries  behind 
the  line  opens  up  and  drops  a  few  shells  into  your  front 
trench.  This  keeps  up  until  the  observer  whispers,  "Your 
range  is  too  short. "  Then  the  shells  drop  nearer  the  Ger- 
man lines. 


•'Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches*'  311 

"  Terrier.  "  Tommy's  nickname  for  a  Territorial  or  "  Saturday- 
night  soldier."  A  regular  despises  a  Territorial  while  a 
Territorial  looks  down  on  "Kitchener's  Mob."  Kitchener's 
Mob  has  the  utmost  contempt  for  both  of  them. 

Territorial.  A  peace-time  soldier  with  the  same  status  as  the 
American  militiaman.  Before  the  war  they  were  called 
"Saturday-Night  Soldiers,"  but  they  soon  proved  them- 
selves "every-night  soldiers." 

"  The  Old  Man.  "  Captain  of  a  company.  He  is  called  "the 
old  man,"  because  generally  his  age  is  about  twenty-eight. 

"  The  Best  o'  Luck."  The  Jonah  phrase  of  the  trenches.  Every 
time  Tommy  goes  over  the  top  or  on  a  trench  raid  his  mates 
wish  him  the  best  o'  luck.  It  means  that  if  you  are  lucky 
enough  to  come  back,  you  generally  have  an  arm  or  leg 
missing. 

"  Thumbs  up.  "  Tommy's  expression  which  means  "everything 
is  fine  with  me."  Very  seldom  used  during  an  intense 
bombardment. 

"Time  ex.  "  Expiration  of  term  of  enlistment.  The  only  time 
Tommy  is  a  civilian  in  the  trenches;  but  about  ten  minutes 
after  he  is  a  soldier  for  duration  of  war. 

"Tin  Hat."  Tommy's  name  for  his  steel  helmet  which  is  made  out 
of  a  metal  about  as  hard  as  mush.  The  only  advantage  is 
that  it  is  heavy  and  greatly  adds  to  the  weight  of  Tommy's 
equipment.  Its  most  popular  use  is  for  carrying  eggs. 

T.  N.  T.  A  high  explosive  which  the  Army  Ordnance  Corps 
prescribes  for  Fritz.  Fritz  prefers  a  No.  9  pill. 

"Tommy  Atkins."  The  name  England  gives  to  an  English  soldier, 
even  if  his  name  is  Willie  Jones. 

Tommy's  Cocker.  A  spirit  stove  widely  advertised  as  "A  suit- 
able gift  to  the  men  in  the  trenches. "  Many  are  sent  out 
to  Tommy  and  most  of  them  are  thrown  away. 

Tonite.  The  explosive  contained  in  a  rifle  grenade.  It  looks  like 
a  harmless  reel  of  cotton  before  it  explodes, — after  it  explodes 
the  spectator  is  missing. 

"Toots  Sweet."  Tommy's  French  for  "hurry  up,'*  "look 
smart."  Generally  used  in  a  French  eslaminet  when 
Tommy  only  has  a  couple  of  minutes  in  which  to  drink  his 
beer. 


312  Over  the  Top 

"  Top  Hats  at  Home.  "  Tommy's  name  for  Parliament  when  his 
application  for  leave  has  been  turned  down  or  when  no  straw- 
berry jam  arrives  with  the  rations. 

Town  Major.  An  officer  stationed  in  a  French  town  or  village 
who  is  supposed  to  look  after  billets,  upkeep  of  roads,  and 
act  as  interpreter. 

Transport.  An  aggregation  of  mules,  limbers,  and  rough  riders, 
whose  duty  is  to  keep  the  men  in  the  trenches  supplied  with 
rations  and  supplies.  Sometimes  a  shell  drops  within  two 
miles  of  them  and  Tommy  doesn't  get  his  rations,  etc. 

Traverse.  Sandbags  piled  in  a  trench  so  that  the  trench  cannot 
be  traversed  by  Tommy.  Sometimes  it  prevents  enfilading 
fire  by  the  enemy. 

Trench.  A  ditch  full  of  water,  rats,  and  soldiers.  During  his 
visit  to  France,  Tommy  uses  these  ditches  as  residences. 
Now  and  again  he  sticks  his  head  "over  the  top"  to  take  a 
look  at  the  surrounding  scenery.  If  he  is  lucky  he  lives  to 
tell  his  mates  what  he  saw. 

Trench  Feet.  A  disease  of  the  feet  contracted  in  the  trenches 
from  exposure  to  extreme  cold  and  wet.  Tommy's  greatest 
ambition  is  to  contract  this  disease  because  it  means 
"Blighty"  for  him. 

Trench  Fever.  A  malady  contracted  in  the  trenches;  the  symp- 
toms are  high  temperature,  bodily  pains,  and  homesick- 
ness. Mostly  homesickness.  A  bad  case  lands  Tommy  in 
"Blighty,"  a  slight  case  lands  him  back  in  the  trenches, 
where  he  tries  to  get  it  worse  than  ever. 

"  Trenchitls.  "  A  combination  of  "fedupness"  and  homesick- 
ness, experienced  by  Tommy  in  the  trenches,  especially 
when  he  receives  a  letter  from  a  friend  in  Blighty  who  is  mak- 
ing a  fortune  working  in  a  munition  plant. 

Trench  Mortar.  A  gun  like  a  stove  pipe  which  throws  shells  at 
the  German  trenches.  Tommy  detests  these  mortars  be- 
cause when  they  take  positions  near  to  him  in  the  trenches,  he 
knows  that  it  is  only  a  matter  of  minutes  before  a  German 
shell  with  his  name  and  number  on  it  will  be  knocking  at  his 
door. 

Trench  Pudding.  A  delectable  mess  of  broken  biscuits,  con- 
densed milk,  jam,  and  mud,  slightly  flavored  with  smoke. 


"Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches"  313 

Tommy  prepares,  cooks,  and  eats  this.  Next  day  he  has 
"trench  fever." 

Trench  Raid.  Several  men  detailed  to  go  over  the  top  at  night 
and  shake  hands  with  the  Germans,  and,  if  possible,  persuade 
some  of  them  to  be  prisoners.  At  times  the  raiders  would 
themselves  get  raided  because  Fritz  refused  to  shake  and 
adopted  nasty  methods. 

Turpenite.  A  deadly  chemical  shell  invented  by  an  enthusiastic 
war  correspondent  suffering  from  brain  storm.  Companies 
and  batteries  were  supposed  to  die  standing  up  from  its 
effects,  but  they  refused  to  do  this. 

"  Twelve  in  one.  "  Means  that  twelve  men  are  to  share  one  loaf 
of  bread.  When  the  slicing  takes  place  the  war  in  the  dug- 
out makes  the  European  argument  look  like  thirty  cents. 


"  Up  against  the  wall.  "    Tommy's  term  for  a  man  who  is  to  be 

shot  by  a  firing  squad. 

"  Up  the  line.  "  Term  generally  used  in  rest  billets  when  Tom- 
my talks  about  the  fire  trench  or  fighting  line.  When  orders 
are  issued  to  go  "up  the  line"  Tommy  immediately  goes 
"up  in  the  air." 

V 

V.  C.     Victoria  Cross,  or  "Very  careless"  as  Tommy  calls  it.     It 

is  a  bronze  medal  won  by  Tommy  for  being  very  careless  with 

his  life. 

Very-Lights.    A  star  shell  invented  by  Mr.  Very.     See  Flare. 
Vickers  Gun.    A  machine  gun  improved  on  by  a  fellow  named 

Vickers.     His  intentions  were  good  but  his  improvements, 

according  to  Tommy,  were  "rotten." 
Vin  Blanc.    French  white  wine  made  from  vinegar.     They  forgot 

the  red  ink. 
Vin  Rouge.    French  red  wine  made  from  vinegar  and  red  ink. 

Tommy  pays  good  money  for  it. 

W 

Waders.  Rubber  hip  boots,  used  when  the  water  in  the  trenches 
is  up  to  Tommy's  neck. 


314  Over  the  Top 

Waiting  Man.     The  cleanest  man  at  guard  mounting.     He  does 

not  have  to  walk  post;  is  supposed  to  wait  on  the  guard. 
Washout.     Tommy's  idea  of  something  that  is  worth  nothing. 
Water  Bottle.    A  metal  bottle  for  carrying  water  (when  not  used 

for  rum,  beer,  or  wine). 
Waterproof.    A  rubber  sheet  issued  to  Tommy  to  keep  him  dry. 

It  does  when  the  sun  is  out. 
Wave.    A  line  of  troops  which  goes  "over  the  top"  in  a  charge. 

The  waves  are  numbered  according  to  their  turn  in  going 

over,  viz.,  "First  Wave,"   "Second  Wave,"  etc.  Tommy 

would  sooner  go  ever  with  the  "Tenth  Wave. " 
Wet  Canteen.    A  military  saloon  or  pub  where   Tommy  can 

get  a  "wet. "     Most  campaigns  and  battles  are  planned  and 

fought  in  these  places. 
"  Whizz  Bang.  "    A  small  German  shell  which  whizzes  through 

the  air  and  explodes  with  a  "  bang."     Their  bark  is  worse 

than  their  bite. 
"  Wind  up.  "     Term  generally  applied  to  the  Germans  when  they 

send  up  several  star  shells  at  once  because  they  are  nervous 

and  expect  an  attack  or  night  raid  on  their  trenches. 
"  Windy.  "     Tommy's  name  for  a  nervous  soldier,  coward. 
11  Wipers."     Tommy's  name  for  Ypres,  sometimes  he  calls  it 

"Yeeps."     A  place  up  the  line  which  Tommy  likes  to  duck. 

It  is  even  "hot"  in  the  winter  time  at  "Wipers." 
Wire.     See  barbed  wire,  but  don't  go  "over  the  top  "  to  look  at  it. 

It  isn't  safe. 
Wire  Cutters.    An  instrument  for  cutting  barbed  wire,  but 

mostly  used  for  driving  nails. 
Wiring  Party.    Another  social  affair  for  which  Tommy  receives 

invitations.     It  consists  of  going  "over  the  top"  at  night  and 

stretching  barbed  wire  between  stakes.    A  German  machine 

gun  generally  takes  the  place  of  an  orchestra. 
Woodbine.     A  cigarette  made  of  paper  and  old  hay.     Tommy 

swears  by  a  Woodbine. 
Wooden  Cross.     Two  pieces  of  wood  in  the  form  of  a  cross  placed 

at  the  head  of  a  Tommy's  grave.     Inscribed  on  it  are  his 

rank,  name,  number,  and  regiment.     Also  date  of  death  and 

last  but  not  least,  the  letters  R.  I.  P. 
Working  Party.    A  sort  of  compulsory  invitation  affair  for  which 


Tommy's  Dictionary  of  the  Trenches**  315 

Tommy  often  is  honored  with  an  invitation.     It  consists  of 
digging,  filling  sandbags,  and  ducking  shells  and  bullets. 


Zeppelin.  A  bag  full  of  gas  invented  by  a  count  full  of  gas.  It  is 
a  dirigible  airship  used  by  the  Germans  for  killing  babies 
and  dropping  bombs  in  open  fields.  You  never  see  them 
over  the  trenches,  it  is  safer  to  bombard  civilians  in  cities, 
They  use  Iron  Crosses  for  ballast. 


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